Two Paths to Victory
Jack O’Brien and Alf Landsberry in WWII
While this website is mainly about the O’Brien Clan centred around Irene and Bill O’Brien, occasionally it takes a quick look at some other interesting or amusing aspect that has some relationship with our main story. Maybe it’s the story of famous relative like Betty Viazim, or maybe one about an interesting sibling of one of our main players, like Roy Casey.
In this case I want to take a quick look at two paths through World War II, those of my Dad (Alf Landsberry) and my uncle (Jack O’Brien).
Jack and Dad came from very different backgrounds. The only two things they had in common were they were both men, and they were almost the same age, with Dad having been born late September 1917, and Jack in March 1918. But apart from those couple of facts, they’d led very different lives.
Jack was one of twelve kids and Dad was an only child.
Jack had grown up in Junee in Western NSW. He was used to a tough and demanding life on the farm. He was self-sufficient and confident, with broad tough hands, weathered from wrangling sheep and ornery farm equipment.
Dad had lived in Sydney all his life, cossetted by a mother who was always checking that he had his singlet on, and never sat in a draft. Dad had a callous on the middle finger of his right hand, because he liked to write. Other than that, these were hands that had HEARD of manual labour, but never actually been tasked with it.
At the core of Jack’s being was a deep faith and a strong Catholic upbringing. Religion hadn’t been instilled in him or forced on him. Rather it was gently demonstrated to him as he grew up, by two loving parents who had also been raised in an atmosphere steeped in faith. Unlike those faux Christians who talk the talk, but don’t walk the walk, Irene and Bill lived Christianity.
Dad was notionally an Anglican, but he hadn’t taken any interest in religion until he met my Mum (Gwen) and realised that he had to at least paddle about in the unfamiliar sea of Christianity if he was to have any hope of winning her over and eventually marrying her – a story for another time.
Suffice to say, that these two men had little in common. So, why do I want to look at their lives during the war? I believe that in times of stress we often see a person’s true character. We see what they’re made of. And Jack’s experience of the war was about as far from my father’s as possible.
Jack joined the Air Force on 16 January 1939, over eight months before the war started.
RAAF recruitment poster
I’m not sure whether he just wanted to fly, or whether he could see that there was a high risk of war, and he wanted to be ready to serve when it all got started. He was just 20 years old, and he was a volunteer before others even realised there was a need to volunteer.
Jack and his RAAF number A476
Even on his best days, I couldn’t really say my Dad was a “volunteering” sort of person, especially when there was even a small chance of danger.
In later life he would often reinforce a few of his core principles with we three kids. “Kids”, he’d say as he took a brief break from listening to the Saturday races on his brown imitation‑vinyl‑fake‑leather-bound National wireless, “you need to know a few key things. First, never volunteer…for anything. Second, never put on a uniform. And lastly, remember this. Landsberrys are runners, not fighters”.
I like to think that the three of us have lived by these powerful maxims ever since. The “no uniform” rule went to the extent that Dad wouldn’t allow any of us to join the Cubs, Scouts or Girl Guides, nor could David and I join cadets at North Sydney Boys’ High. Dad once even frowned across the room at me when I walked in with a branded cap.
So, unlike Uncle Jack’s bold and brave entry into the fray of 1939, my Dad’s was less flamboyant. I like to think of his path to war more along the lines of Spike Milligan’s. For weeks Spike had been ignoring letters from the Government “inviting” him to join the other “volunteers” to take on the savage Hun.
Spike had taken to hiding all over the house and donning various disguises, just in case some military gentleman came knocking. Then one morning, that knock came, and as Spike recalled, “It was a proud day for the Milligan family as I was taken from the house. “I’m too young to go”, I screamed as Military Policeman dragged me from my pram, clutching a dummy”.
Vol 1 of Spike’s war reminiscences
That’s how I see it unfolding for my Dad. I have a vision of him gussied up in one of Nana’s dresses, attempting to pass himself off as a country relative just down for a visit, a Military Policeman on each arm as they loaded him into the waiting transport. Dad didn’t actually “join” the army. Rather he was sort of injected into it via a well-placed officer’s boot up his notably uncooperative arse.
And so, there you have it. War begins and my Dad is in the Army, while Jack is in the RAAF. You can see their respective “military swaggers” in these two photos.
My Nana has just checked Dad’s singlet was in place, and his Dad – a giant of a man – had lifted Dad’s shorts to an eye watering height, where just like the Allies and the Hun, each bollock had taken its own very clear side.
Jack, on the other hand, looks like he’s 100% ready to get amongst it. On the surface he’s cool, calm and collected, but he’s actually a coiled military spring. And unless he has some underclothing lovingly crafted by his Mum from the detritus from the plug hole in the bath back home, then I believe there’s not a singlet to be seen. Just the protective chest matting of a man who’s put the “hir” back into “hirsute”.
Check the nine guys in Jacks photo above. They could easily have had their own TV series. Of course, we’d all have had to wait 10 years or more for the televisions to watch it on.
A still from the 2023 TV Series Master of the Air, streaming soon
Suffice to say that most of us who’ve lived in the pampered soft underbelly of Australian life since WWII would likely not have survived what Jack endured.
He saw many of his fellow airmen die, including his own co‑pilot who was sitting right next to him.
He was shot in the shoulder and lost two crew members, still managing to make it back to base under heavy fire.
He was rendered unconscious, and when he came to had to pull his plane out of a spiralling dive.
He avoided an attack by a group of Zeros by flying at full tilt just ten feet (3 metres) above Malaysian beaches, sand whipping up all around his plane.
He flew planes that were only fit to be used as spare parts. Riddled with bullet holes. Damaged by flack attack. Pieces of wings and fuselage missing.
He limped back from Asia to Australia with a group of wounded airmen in a badly damaged plane, and having no maps or navigation equipment, no weather forecast service to help them, a missing wingtip, holes in the wings and fuselage, leaking fuel tanks, and damaged instruments.
And much more. You can read about Jack’s exploits as a WWII pilot here.
Meanwhile, back in New South Wales, we find my Dad doing his best for the war effort. Actually, Dad spent all his time in the army trying to avoid any “effort” at all, particularly if it involved even the vaguest possibility of seeing any action or putting himself at any risk. Throughout his life, “risk” was the worst four letter word Dad knew. We were never allowed to own a bicycle (death on the road), go in a plane (death in the air), own a dog (rabies), or eat food from a tin with a dent in it (botulism).
A favourite was his advice that when travelling on the train, sit in a middle carriage, safe from crashing into something in front (like an oncoming train, because that was common back in the day), or being crashed into by something from the rear (like a tsunami, for example).
And then sit in the middle of that carriage in case it became separated from the rest of the train, because YOUR CARRIAGE had then became susceptible to the above “front” and “rear” events.
And then sit in an aisle seat, in case something hit the train from the side (such as a meteor or a missile from a foreign power).
Ask my siblings – this is all true. Well, mostly true.
But back to Dad’s war effort, where he put his risk management skills to work. When he would arrive at a new camp - and remember these were all in NSW, as he never left the country - his first and most important duty was not to his country, but to himself. He would throw down his gear and dash off to the Commanding Officer’s office. “Excuse me sir”, he’d say obsequiously, “would I be able to use your typewriter to dash off a quick note to my Mother? She’s quite ill.” Of course, Nana was perfectly fine.
Invariably the CO would agree. And Dad would sit down and type his letter as quickly and noisily as possible. Hearing this, the CO would poke his head out of his office saying, “Bloody hell man, you can type like a damned demon” (I may have watched one too many British war movies). “Damn me if that’s not a skill we could use around here in our office‑based quest to defeat the demon Hun.”
“Really sir? I can also take shorthand at just over 170 words per minute”, volunteered Dad, in what was the only volunteering he would ever do during WWII. And the deal was sealed. Dad was seconded to the safety of the CO’s office. As it turns out, this would be the only type of mission that Dad would ever accomplish during WWII.
Dad hated everything about the army, spending 90% of his time trying to get out on any grounds possible, short of wearing a dress a la Klinger in MASH. The uniform was the physical embodiment of that hatred, hence his advice to we kids. He wasn’t even that keen on us donning our primary school tie, “This is how it all starts. One minute you’re 7 years old putting on a red and white striped tie, the next you’re wearing full army greens, standing up to your arse in mud and dodging bullets”. Not that he'd ever been anywhere near a bullet.
And so Dad travelled from army camp to army camp, typing his way through the war. My Aunty Helen (Jacks’ sister), who’d also joined the war effort, said that she and Dad had fought valiantly in the little known Battle Of Broadway.
Helen during WWII
So, there it is. The story of two paths through the War.
There’s more to my Dad’s military story, both during the war and for the rest of his life after he went back to civilian life. Sure, he could be seen as having gamed the system to his advantage during the war, but those skills stood him in good stead to fight injustice in “systems” all over the place throughout his life. And not just for himself and his immediate family, but for many other friends and members of the wider family.
We all have our skills and abilities. And as Mum would have said, “You know Rob, it wouldn’t do if we were all the same”.
Written by Rob Landsberry, last modified 4 June 2023
References:
Adolph Hitler : My Part in his Downfall, by Spike Milligan, Penguin Books, 1974 reprint