by Alan Rimmer
Professor Joseph Rotblat, who had been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize, was one of a number of eminent scientists who was convinced there was skullduggery at work. He said in a 1985 interview: “The fact that servicemen were dying because of their participation in nuclear bomb tests, wasn’t a surprise to anyone, except, of course, the governments carrying out those tests. We had a very similar situation with the survivors of Hiroshima. Of course they wanted to cover these things up; that is what governments do.”
Even former premier Harold Wilson was sceptical when assured that the death of one of his constituents had nothing to do with his witnessing bomb tests. Wilson had expressed a keen interest in the case of Sapper Samuel Duggan who died five years after returning from Christmas Island. In 1965, he had been in correspondence with Private Duggan’s widow and had been persuaded there was a link with his death. He wrote to the Ministry of Defense about his concerns, and received the following bland assurance from his defence minister Fred Mulley:-
“From the copy of Mr Duggan’s death certificate, which we have seen, I understand that he died of a rare form of cancer. There is no evidence that this form of cancer would be induced by exposure to ionising radiation, and the film badge which Sapper Duggan wore, in common with all those liable to be exposed to radiation, gives no record of exposure. I think we can take it, therefore, that Sapper Duggan did not die as a result of his service on Christmas Island.”
In common with many people before and since, Wilson was unhappy with this explanation. He knew the Ministry of Defence was notorious for obfuscation and would always be ‘economical with the truth’, even with prime ministers. He wrote to Sapper Duggan’s widow: “Although the Minister says that the rare form of cancer from which your husband died was not caused by his service on Christmas Island, I do intend to make some further inquiries about cases of leukaemia and similar diseases developing after service on the island. Unfortunately I have not yet had an opportunity to do so.”
Unfortunately it is not known whether Wilson made any “further inquiries” or indeed the nature of them. The letter was the last Mrs Duggan heard of the matter. Inquiries in 1984 to the then Lord Wilson asking about private Duggan received no response.
Many veterans allege they have proof that initial reports on their sicknesses were not included in their medical records. In the aftermath of explosions, ill health tended to be ignored or even hushed up. And even those whose health was so serious that it could not be ignored, often faced a frightening and bewildering ordeal.
Raymond Drake was an RAF fire officer on Christmas Island when Grapple Y was exploded. Mr Drake was in one of the forward viewing positions when he and the rest of his small detachment were blown clean off their feet. “The bomb was massive,” he said in a statement. “The whole island seemed to shake. I thought the scientists had made a mistake and that the place was just going to blow up. We thought we were all going to die…”
Mr Drake survived the blast, but a few days later he began to experience intense chest pains. He also coughed up blood and felt so weak he could hardly stand. It was decided to send him home for treatment.
It was soon obvious to Mr Drake that he was getting special treatment. On his arrival at Gatwick airport he was surprised to see a small convoy of military vehicles and what looked like a specially modified police ambulance. He was even more surprised when he realised the little convoy was waiting for him.
As soon as the doors opened on his aircraft several medics came aboard and strapped Mr Drake to a stretcher. Without a word being said, he was stretchered into the ambulance which took off at high speed, all sirens blaring. “It terrified the life out of me,” he said. “I thought I must be dying and that they had not told me.”
The convoy took him to the RAF Teaching Hospital in Middlesex where he was ushered into a side ward. “I was surrounded by doctors who examined me as though I was some sort of laboratory animal. The examination was rather cursory, as I recall. I had no idea what they were looking for. After only a short time, I was again loaded on to a stretcher and shoved back into the ambulance. We then sped off again, with all the lights flashing. This time the destination was a special isolation hospital at RAF Wroughton in Wiltshire. No-one told me a thing about what was going on. I was ordered not to ask any questions. I couldn’t even contact my family. It was all very bewildering.”
During the next three weeks Mr Drake was put through a series of rigorous medical tests. Samples of blood and skin tissue were taken daily. Mr Drake said: “They were obviously looking for something, but would never tell me what that was. After five weeks in hospital I was discharged.” The doctors put his condition down to emotional stress and nervous tension caused by the size and huge force of the blast. Mr Drake’s chest pains never went away and he soon developed cancer.
Mr Drake’s experience indicates there was in force at the time of the bomb tests a well prepared contingency plan for dealing with men who might be affected. It was a meticulous plan, carried out in secrecy. It was obviously in the best interests of politicians and military planners that the public were not made aware of strange illnesses and deaths among atomic personnel. The Government needed public opinion on its side if it wanted to continue its testing program. It also suggests the military were fully expecting casualties from the atomic bomb tests. The smooth and efficient way Mr Drake was ‘processed’ suggests it had been used on more than one occasion.
One man in a unique position to verify the official cover-up in action was squadron leader Ken Charney, one of the most senior officers at Grapple Y, who, in July 1958, was ordered from Christmas Island to a high-powered meeting at Aldermaston.
The Meeting was attended by Air Vice Marshal Grandy, Roy Pilgrim, scientific director for Grapple, Air Commodore W.R. Stamm, in charge of the famous Princess Mary RAF hospital at Halton, Aylesbury, and a galaxy of other Top Brass. According to a document marked “Secret” dated July 15, 1958, this was to discuss, “Radiological safety precautions at Christmas Island” and was called to thrash out worries about the health of servicemen in the aftermath of Grapple Y. Doctors had recommended that all the men should be given blood tests before the next series of tests, codenamed Grapple Z, scheduled for later in the year. It was an idea that didn’t go down well with the assembled company.
Charney, assigned to take the minutes of the meeting noted the objections by Group Captain Muir of the Air Ministry who thought the idea of blood examinations for servicemen was “unsound.” He was supported by another RAF bigwig, Air Commodore Stamm, who wanted “reasons” for the blood counts.
A Dr J. Lynch from the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment insisted that people with counts above or below normal or those with any blood abnormality must be barred from taking part in any future tests. Air Commodore Stamm objected that if a man developed leukaemia, “it might be difficult to refute the allegation that this was due to radiation received at Christmas Island.”
The standoff was resolved by both parties agreeing that only men in the forward areas would be given blood counts. A decision on the rest of the servicemen would be taken at a later date. This bad-tempered exchange is clear evidence of growing concerns, among the medical fraternity at least, about the after effects of Grapple Y.
At the same time MPs had got wind of things going wrong at Christmas Island and were asking questions in parliament about servicemen contracting leukaemia. The Rev Li Williams MP, who represented a large Welsh constituency, pointedly asked Defence Minister Duncan Sandys in a parliamentary question in the summer of 1958: “What is the number of serving personnel who have been involved in the Christmas Island nuclear explosions and who have since died of leukaemia?”
Sandys replied that two had died, but he was quick to add: “There is no evidence of a medical connection between the circumstances.”
But the fact that servicemen were dying from leukaemia so soon after the Grapple Y explosion was enough to raise eyebrows. And there was of course no telling how many men had con
tracted blood cancers and had yet to exhibit signs. MPs and others were unconvinced at the insistence by the Ministry of Defence that there was no connection between these extremely rare diseases and the Christmas Island tests. But with no hard evidence to back up their suspicions, the issue faded away.
Charney of course knew there was a connection. In later life he often said the island was “alive with fallout” after the Grapple Y shot. And he knew he had been contaminated. He also knew an uncertain fate awaited him even as he sat taking the minutes at Aldermaston three months after the blast.
NO WAY TO TREAT A HERO
Kenneth Langley Charney, born in 1920, was raised in Argentina, the son of Harry Charney, a manager with the Anglo-Mexican Petroleum Co. They were a well-to-do family and young Charney led a racy lifestyle in Beunos Aires. A love of fast cars and his good looks ensured he was never without female company. As luck would have it Charney’s father had close associations with one of the first commercial airlines in the area. The precocious youngster replaced his beloved cars for something far more exciting: aircraft. Aged just 16, and with tutors including French pilots Jean Mermoz and Paul Vachet, Charney was soon flying planes on the mail run down to Patagonia.
The Charney family were living in the same hotel as Antoine de Saint Exupery, another pilot who would later become famous as fighter ace and author. At the outbreak of World War 2, Charney, Exupery and many other Argentine volunteers went to England to join the RAF.
Charney’s flying skills were soon appreciated by the instructors at Cranwell. He was fast-tracked and he earned his wings in April 1941. One of his contemporaries was the famous French flyer Pierre Closterman and the pair wreaked havoc with the Luftwaffe over France. Both received the DFC and Bar, Charney earning his citation for his courage and skill in the Battle of Malta. He was given the soubriquet the ‘Black Knight of Malta’ when he shot down seven enemy fighters.
Later, flying over Falaise in 1943, he was the first to spot the German 7th Army trying to escape. He called on the radio: “Send out whole Air Force!” The result was a massacre that helped cripple Hitler’s war machine. Churchill sent him a personal note of congratulation and Charney received his Bar. He lost many of his former colleagues during the battles of France and Malta which affected him deeply. He was taken off combat duties soon after Falaise and was sent to 53 Operational Training Unit.
But it didn’t suit him and he got a transfer to 602 ‘City of Glasgow’ Squadron as a flight commander. He was joined by the French fighter ace Pierre Clostermann and flew escort missions with Flying Fortresses over Germany. In one afternoon he shot down two Messerschmitts over Normandy. In 1945 he was posted to 132 Squadron, a specialist unit used to attack the V1 and V2 sites.
After the war he became part of Louis Mountbatten’s staff in the Far East as a liaison officer. He was later put in charge of a new airfield in Palembang, Sumatra, on the site of a former POW camp, and scene of many atrocities by the Japanese. He was transferred to Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and from there to Sylt in Germany where he was an instructor.
His stint on Christmas Island in 1958 earned him a posting back to England where he was put in charge of the RAF Cadet School in London. He retired as Group Captain in 1970 and became an instructor in the Saudi Air Force for three years. During his career he had flown 36 types of planes and had 2,300 hours in jets and fighters. He lived in Spain and then settled in Andorra; the climate suited his by now frail health.
Charney was a modest hero and was reluctant to talk about his war experiences. He left that to his Andorran friends who were in awe of his bravery. Whenever anyone broached the subject his stock reply was, “there were far braver men than me.”
He met June, his future wife, in a café in the little village of L’Aldosa three thousand feet up in the Pyrenees in the La Massana parish of Andorra. She was sitting in a corner silently sipping a coffee with a lively group of people. Born in South Africa, June had decided to live in England following the break-up of her marriage, and was on an adventure holiday in Europe when she decided to stay awhile in Andorra.
She recalled: “Ken was a good 10 years older than me, but I was attracted to him straightaway. I heard all these stories about him being a war hero and all that, but I found him to be very shy and not at all boastful. In many ways he seemed lost to me, and one day he told me why. His brow sort of darkened and he told me he had been to a place that no-one should have been sent to. I thought he was talking about somewhere in the war years. But he said, ‘no…that’s not it.’
“He told me he had been sent to a tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean called Christmas Island for a number of years. Ken was the personal assistant to the officer commanding on the island and was involved in all these bombs going off. I distinctly remember him saying the whole place was ‘red hot.’ He said between the bombs there wasn’t much to do except swim in the lagoons and drink. He used to take a lot of photographs. And he was fascinated with the birds. He became very friendly with the reverend on the island. They played a lot of chess. When the bombs started going off, I don’t think he was overly concerned. He wasn’t enamoured to be there, but it was his job.
“Ken used to swim a lot and of course there was an awful lot of coral there. And one day after an enormous bomb went off he cut himself on the coral, all down his side, and of course all that rotten water went in there. He said it was just after the ‘big one’, a bomb that shook the whole island. He said it was quite amazing. He laughed when he said the bigwigs must have known something because they all skedaddled before the explosion.
“Ken was in one of the forward positions, in a bunker. The only way he could see was through a sort of mirror. He said nothing in the war terrified him as much as this one; he really thought he was going to die. The bunker shook like mad. When he got cut by the coral, he landed in hospital, but it all turned nasty. He knew that water was very contaminated and often worried about it. But Ken had such a zest for life that he just laughed it off. He said we all had to die, and in the meantime he planned to carry on living life to the full.”
This he proceeded to do, although even then his health was already failing. “He told me he would never go to the doctors. He was always afraid of what they might find. He said that even while he was jet-setting between England and the continent he felt the sword of Damocles hanging over him.” Not long after he married June, Charney began to lose weight and his hair thinned alarmingly. “We both knew he was very sick, but we never discussed it and I am so sorry that we never did. All he would say is that he was doomed after swimming in the lagoon.
“About three or four years before he died he was bedridden for much of the time. It was so degrading for a man like him; I used to cry alone looking at some old photographs that showed him as he was in the RAF. I didn’t realise it then, but this was the onset of leukaemia. I’m not a medical person, but all the signs were there. He knew what was wrong with him, but he was too frightened to face it. We tried to brush it aside and even went to South Africa for Christmas; we went out for three months and we took an apartment. He loved it so much he wanted to buy a place. But, of course, he was too ill. He said to me one day, about a month before he died, that he hadn’t got long and that I should start thinking about my future. We both cried like babies and he cursed what he called that ‘dot’ in the middle of the Pacific.
Ken Charney, died on June 3, 1982, aged 62. An inept local doctor certified the cause of death as heart failure. No other cause was given. Apart from his pension, Charney had little to show for his 30 years service in the RAF. What savings he had went on paying a few bills and tying up his affairs. He had few personal possessions except for one intriguing item: a small leather-bound suitcase that he always kept carefully under his bed.
June said: “Ken always said the content of the case was dynamite and that I should never open it. I thought he was joking, of course, and I thought I had better open it to see if there was anything important. I found a couple of Dunhill pipes a
nd some RAF insignias and a brooch. There was also a mass of official looking paperwork, but I was in deep mourning and didn’t take any notice of them. I contacted Ken’s old squadron and asked them if they would like the badges for their museum. I also told them about the paperwork. Out of the blue two women appeared on my doorstep. I was surprised because I’d only sent the letter a couple of days previously.
“They asked me if they could look into Ken’s case to see if there might be “anything of interest”. I saw no reason not to let them, and they rummaged around for a while. One of them started asking me about Ken, and she was delighted when I said they could have his insignia’s and brooch for the museum. The other just read all the papers. They stayed for quite a while and we parted on very good terms. They took all Ken’s things with them, including the papers. The badges ended up in his old squadron’s museum, but I have no idea what happened to the papers.”
Mrs Charney moved back to London and thought no more about Christmas Island until she saw an item in a newspaper about nuclear veterans fighting for compensation. By that time she was short of money and was only on an ordinary widow’s pension. She wasn’t entitled to the more generous RAF pension because she married her husband after his RAF service ended.
She decided to apply for a war pension because of her husband’s participation in the Christmas Island tests. But she was turned down. “They authorities were not interested in Ken, or me,” said Mrs Charney. “I told them all about his service during the war, but they said it wasn’t relevant. I appealed against their decision about the war pension, but again they turned me down flat. It seemed very harsh.”
Mrs Charney eventually wrote a letter to The Times which was published; a short while later she received a phone call from one of her husband’s old colleagues who was now a Harley Street consultant. He asked Mrs Charney to send all her husband’s medical notes to him. From those he was able to establish that Charney had died from leukaemia. After lengthy consideration, Mrs Charney was finally awarded a pension. “It’s not much, but it helps,” she said. “But this was no way for England to treat a hero.”
