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INTRODUCTION

The following story, heavily abridged from the original, was written by my late father-in-law's cousin, Dr John Beeston, in 1998 to be shared with his extended family (and friends). It tells of his experiences as a Doctor with the Civil Defence from 1942 until a very special event on VE Day.

THE STORY

Making the King Laugh: Memories of VE Day

By any measure, May 8th, 1945 was a glorious day to remember for all time. During the last few days of April, the final collapse of Nazi Germany was imminent. A joint statement was issued that all hostilities in Europe would cease at midnight on May 7th and that May 8th would be declared Victory in Europe Day, or VE Day for short.

For me however, May 8th had already been declared a personal red-letter day, by Royal Command. Some four weeks earlier, I had received a letter in an official looking envelope stamped with OHMS. The only other On His Majesty’s Service letter I could remember was one dealing with income tax, so it was with some trepidation that I opened it. Anxiety quickly turned to elation on reading the contents. I was commanded by His Majesty King George VI to be present at an Investiture at Buckingham Palace on May 8th at 10 a.m. precisely.

In 1942 I had been appointed Deputy Medical Officer of Health for the Borough of Willesden, which involved being Civil Defence Medical Officer for the County of Middlesex. From 1944, especially after D Day, these duties kept me busy 24 hours a day, with V1 and V2 attacks causing much damage and many casualties.

One of the life threatening problems faced by patients who have been seriously injured and are in shock is the collapse of the cardiovascular system. The heart is racing trying to pump blood to the vital organs when there is insufficient volume of blood in the system.

At the time of the Second World War, whole blood could only be kept for three weeks, so a process had been developed to extract the plasma; the fraction of blood that remains after the red blood cells have been removed. It was dried into a powder which could be reconstituted by adding sterile saline solution and then administered intravenously. Introducing plasma into a vein can rapidly provide more volume, and the chemicals which it contains act to pull fluid back from the body tissues into the arteries and veins and so help the heart to restore a more useful circulation and save the patient from imminent death.

Although this procedure was being used in hospital emergency rooms to treat air raid casualties, it seemed to me that it could also be used directly at locations where people were injured and before they could be transported to hospital. With this in mind, I carried several units of plasma and the saline to reconstitute it as well as the sterile intravenous equipment needed to administer it. During the hectic summer days of 1944, when the flying bombs and rockets caused much havoc on London, I used this technique on several occasions.

I realise now that I was pioneering a technique which today is standard practice for paramedics who insert an intravenous drip as a primary task when dealing with injured patients at the scene of an accident. The idea of intravenous infusions for trapped air raid casualties was just another example of taking emergency services directly to the patient in need.

Early on the morning of 8 May, as Europe prepared to celebrate, I set off with my parents for Buckingham Palace where crowds were gathering for the great day. I found myself, unnerved at the prospect of shaking the King’s hand, in a huge room with about a hundred service men (I don’t remember any women there) who were to be decorated. To my surprise, I found I was to be the first to be presented - there were to be three George Medals that day, and I was first in the alphabet. The King, George VI, had introduced the George Cross for officers in the military and the George Medal for civilians for acts of bravery not on the battlefield, and these took precedence over other honours except the Victoria Cross.

We were told firmly during our briefing that the strict timetable for the ceremony was not likely to permit any conversation with His Majesty. Nevertheless, I found myself wondering what he might ask; perhaps how long I had been in my job, or what I enjoyed about it. So I thought about how I might answer if he did.

I should mention at this stage that about a week before I had received my invitation letter, I had slipped and fallen, fracturing my skull. I had spent the next six weeks in hospital, and though the fractures healed, I suffered 75 per cent loss of hearing in my left ear and a loud and persistent hissing sound which has continued ever since.

I soon found myself waiting to approach the platform where the King stood, wearing the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet and flanked by several high-ranking military aides, one of whom began reading the citation published when my award was announced.

CITATION BEGINS

"A flying bomb demolished houses and people were trapped in the wreckage. A tunnel was driven into the debris, the weight of which was gradually forcing out the remains of a party wall. Dr Beeston was able to get to a woman who was trapped in debris through which ran several large timbers supported by the arms of a chair. He decided that a blood transfusion was necessary and immediately commenced to effect the operation, instructing the rescuers to continue freeing the casualty as gently as possible. An escape of coal gas was affecting everybody working in the tunnel and the rescuers were relieved from time to time but Dr Beeston continued for 90 minutes with the casualty although a fall of debris took place just as the plasma bottles were being changed. As the casualty’s condition continued to improve from the onset of the transfusion, rescue work was speeded up. With Dr Beeston’s assistance she was eventually extricated and brought through the tunnel on a stretcher with the plasma bottle still in position. Dr Beeston showed courage without regard for the dangerous load above and the presence of coal gas. His skill, applied as it was on the spot, undoubtedly saved the life of the woman."

CITATION ENDS

The King then pinned on the medal and shook my hand - the signal for me to make a smart turn and leave the platform. At this point, my deaf left ear was towards His Majesty, but I saw his lips moving and realised that the ‘extremely unlikely’ was happening; he was speaking to me! All I heard was ‘How long …?’ How long had I been in the service? Five years, your Majesty.

The King looked puzzled, started to smile, then broke into hearty laughter. His question had been: ‘Just how long were you trapped in the hole with the woman while giving her the transfusion?’ He went on to ask more questions, then shook my hand again, and it all appeared to be over.

But as I settled down to relax at the back of the room and watch the rest of the ceremony, I heard a scream and crash of a body collapsing onto the marble floor. Making my way forwards I found a young sailor lying on the floor in the throes of a major epileptic seizure. I had to prevent a young RAF officer, who appeared to be in charge, moving him until the fit had subsided. I later learned he was Group Captain Peter Townsend.

It was now just after noon, and I joined my parents who were most eager to know what I had said to the King. We went out of the Palace and into the courtyard where a number of press photographers took pictures for their papers. My parents and I made our way back home by bus, which gave us a chance to see some of the neighbourhood street parties from the top deck of the double-decker. Later that day, I carried my 90 year old grandmother downstairs from her bedroom and placed her in the front seat of my car, and drove her up to the centre of London so she could see all the festivities.

We drove through the City, past the Tower and St. Paul’s Cathedral and down Fleet Street and the Strand to Charing Cross. Access to Trafalgar Square was blocked by crowds of people going down the Mall to Buckingham Palace to join the huge crowds already there. We were directed by police to go down Whitehall to the Houses of Parliament and crossed Westminster Bridge on our way back home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Sincere thanks to Siân Wherrett of the Communications Office of Barts and the London, Queen Mary's School of Medicine and Dentistry, for editing the original manuscript to make it suitable for publication on this web site.

FURTHER INFORMATION

Professor John Beeston qualified from St Bartholomew’s Hospital in 1942, and is an alumnus of Queen Mary, University of London. If you would like any further information about him, or his experiences of VE Day, please contact:

Stuart McGee
hbw268@aol.com

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