From Nuclear Test Veteran to Lancaster's 'Favourite Tramp': The 'Life Less Ordinary' of Bernard Downhill

(Just a quick heads up, this article deals with themes including self-harm and suicide. Proceed with caution if these are sensitive issues for you. Thanks, Rebecca.)

'Your own local authority will best be able to help you in war. If you move away — unless you have a place of your own to go to or intend to live with relatives — the authority in your new area will not help you with food or other essentials. So stay at home.'

The message in the infamous nuclear war pamphlet Protect and Survive was clear: if you fled your home after the Bomb had dropped, you were on your own. Stray outside the perceived safety of your blast-damaged / roofless / windowless/ burning house, and your local government, safely ensconced in a cosy bunker somewhere, would do nothing for you. In order to survive in the post-nuclear attack world, you would have to rely upon your own tenacity and the generosity of others, existing day to day upon the hope that a fellow refugee would share their meagre feast of chargrilled rats and irradiated water with you.

The post-apocalyptic refugee is a character ubiquitous to every nuclear war movie. We see them tramping from place to place with all their worldly belongings safely stowed in a plastic bag, rummaging through waste for food and staring blankly into nothingness, in melancholy remembrance of the life they once knew. We, the viewers, can sleep easy in the knowledge that the nuclear tramps are mere fictional characters. The nightmare ends the moment we press pause on the movie.

Or does it? The truth is, post-nuclear tramps have existed in the real world.

On a bench in the town where you live could well be living someone who has seen an atomic weapon explode first hand, who now lives hand to mouth and sleeps rough in the open air, waiting for the night when mushroom clouds no longer contaminate their dreams. I'd like to introduce you to one of these nuclear tramps and delve into his fascinating life. Ladies and gentlemen, Bernard Downhill. 

Bernard Downhill 

To understand Bernard's extraordinary life, we must begin at it's end. It is Saturday 6th October 2001. Staff at the Marketgate Shopping Centre in Lancaster city centre are beginning to arrive for work. Several shop workers at Littlewood's bid good morning to the familiar silver-haired, bearded gentleman who is laying on the bench outside the store. Some workers remark that it's strange for Bernard to be sleeping so late, for the homeless man is usually awake, alert and chatting at the start of the working day. Somebody tries to wake Bernard by lightly touching his arm, clad as usual in his trademark dark coat.

But Bernard will not wake. He has passed away during the night. He was 72 years old. The only belongings found in his possession are a copy of the hymn, 'The Old Rugged Cross' and a passport. When examining the passport, police are puzzled; the photograph inside certainly resembles 'Lancaster's favourite tramp', albeit considerably younger and minus his grizzled beard, but the bearer's occupation can't possibly be correct. How could Bernard – who'd spent the past five years living as a 'down and out' on a bench – have been a nuclear physicist?

For many locals, the simple answer was that he couldn't possibly have been. The old gentleman had been well-known in the local community for the fantastical stories he'd spun about his 'former life', from his 'time as a spy during the war to the occasion when he won an Olympic gold medal for shooting.' One of Bernard's acquaintances was quoted in the Lancaster Guardian as saying that, with the late man, it was 'often difficult to tell fact from fiction'. The ludicrous notion that Bernard could have ever been a phenomenally intelligent nuclear physicist fitted in perfectly with his reputation for being a wildly inventive storyteller, and could therefore be easily relegated to the realms of fantasy as Lancaster City Council made arrangements for a pauper's funeral. It seemed that although Bernard would be remembered by his friends as a chatty, kindly gentleman, to the wider world he would be stigmatised as a tramp who had 'drifted into a down-and-out life with no-one to point out how far he'd fallen'. (Morecambe Guardian).

Flowers and cards left on Bernard's bench following his death in Lancaster's Marketgate shopping centre. 

There the story might have ended, had it not been for the shocking news that broke in the local press on the morning of 12th October 2001: Bernard's adult children had been traced, and they were to reveal that their father's life had been more amazing – and more shocking — than anyone could have imagined. Not only had Mr. Downhill truly been a nuclear physicist, he was also a nuclear test veteran, having witnessed at least seven atomic blasts at the height of the Cold War. He had also been a seismologist, who was employed to measure the blast waves caused by nuclear detonations and the potential resulting damage they might cause on the battlefield. 

Bernard's children had last seen their 'caring, fit and inventive' father in 1966, on the day that he 'simply walked out of the family home in Essex, never to return'. In the years prior to his disappearance, he had been 'going walkabout in the English countryside' for days on end, apparently lost in his own thoughts and in desperate need of solitude. Where Bernard had once been a 'sociable, bright and intelligent man', he had been a shadow of his former self since his return from one of his trips to Australia with the British Atomic Weapons Research Authority. Downhill family lore went that Bernard had sunk into 'some kind of neurosis or depression' after witnessing a nuclear weapons test at the Monte Bello Island test site, an area today considered to be so dangerous that visits are limited to one hour. Although it was clear that something horrific had shaken her father to his core, his daughter, Kate, would never learn the exact details of the trauma he had endured: 'He never talked about it, because he would have signed the Official Secrets Act.' Perhaps it was this legally binding oath of silence that later led Bernard to fabricate fanciful stories about his life: unable to reveal the truth, he would nevertheless have craved acknowledgement of his achievements, even if they had to be dressed up in an elaborate camouflage and disbelieved by most. 

To understand why Bernard's nuclear test experiences would have driven him to leave his stereotypically 'successful' life and career in pursuit of a nomadic existence, we must first explore the early years that made him the 'rare and special person' he was.

Bernard was born in 1929 in Sedbergh, a small rural town 10 miles east of Kendal and 28 miles north of Lancaster. A promising pupil, at the age of eleven he passed the entrance exam to attend the highly-respected Queen Elizabeth School in nearby Kirkby Lonsdale, where he excelled and went on to become Head Boy. Bernard was a sociable pupil and an accomplished rugby and cricket player, enjoying the camaraderie and friendship that outdoor team sports provided. His love of the freedom of an outdoors lifestyle was enhanced by weekend expeditions laid on by the school during the 1940s, with pot-holing, climbing and caving in nearby Ingleton being his favourite pursuits. It was also during these caving trips that Bernard developed an interest in geology,  which he would go on to use in his future career as a seismologist. 

Sedbergh, where Bernard grew up

Upon leaving school, Bernard undertook his national service with the Royal Air Force, where he received his first taste of a military lifestyle and an understanding of weaponry. This being the late 1940s, the world was still reeling from the detonation of the first atomic bombs in Japan at the conclusion of the Second World War, and paranoia was rife as to if — or, more accurately, when — the Soviet Union would acquire a bomb of their own. Having leant the expertise of their finest scientific minds to the development of the first atomic bombs during WW2, the British were keen to keep their noses in the nuclear business, with the aim of joining the US in having atomic weaponry themselves in the near future. This must have been a heady and tense time for optimistic young men such as Bernard to complete their national service, witnessing the authorities around them scrambling to prepare for a devastating war so soon after the conclusion of the previous one. 

It's little wonder that Bernard sought to distance himself from the destructive capabilities of the military by choosing to leave battle-ready airfields and instead become part of the RAF Mountain Rescue at the first opportunity presented to him. This was a benevolent branch of the military, allowing Bernard to use his intelligence and caving skills to help stranded walkers or other people in need, rather than contributing to the development of lethal weaponry and perpetuation of nuclear paranoia. It's likely that this was Bernard's first taste of needing to have his faith in humanity restored. It would not be his last.

Bernard (centre) taking part in a mountain rescue with friends during his time in the RAF 

Once his national service was complete, Bernard was able to pursue a career, returning to his love of geology and training to be a seismologist. Unbeknownst to him, seismology, which at the time was deemed to be a 'small, rather obscure discipline', was soon to become critical in the burgeoning world of nuclear weapons testing. Soon, Bernard would find his 'faith in nuclear power as the key to a clean energy future subsumed by Britain's Cold War imperative to develop the bomb.' (Australian Daily Telegraph)

As explained on allshookup.org in an article titled 'British Atomic Testing in Australia':

By the late 1950s, many seismologists had become aware that their energies and talents would be called upon to help solve one of the key scientific dilemmas of the second half of the 20th century. The problem was as follows: if atomic weapons tests were banned under international treaty, could a nation that wished to violate the treaty do so without being detected? Could seismology alone be relied upon to provide the means of detecting the differences between natural earthquakes and unnatural ones fired off secretly within the earth's crust? 

In addition to the above, the talents of seismologists would  also be required during nuclear testing to ascertain a blast damage radius of the weapons in question, with seismographs being used to measure shockwaves hundreds of miles from the test site. With this in mind, when the UK announced in 1952 that it would be conducting it's first atomic weapons tests in Maralinga, Australia, a recruitment campaign was launched to attract the finest minds the field of seismology could offer. The campaign relied upon some whopping great fibs to tempt civilians to work on what promised to be a thoroughly horrid project, with a long, over-crowded sea journey over shark-infested waters and unbearably scorching working conditions among the highlights, not to mention the somewhat major problem of radioactivity. British Air Marshall E.D Davis claimed to the press that the nuclear trials would be like a 'prolonged rest cure' for participants, adding that, 'any right-minded man would regard [the] trials as a grand experience, combined with the fun of a picnic'. I imagine his nose was growing like Pinocchio's at this point. 

It's hard to believe that any 'right-minded' person would believe such fabricated tripe, but believe it people did. Sadly, Bernard Downhill was one of them. Perhaps he was tempted by the promise of a trip to Australia — his daughter Kate later confirmed that he had always 'absolutely loved' the country — or maybe it was the allure of playing an active part in the atomic age, which promised clean energy and even the potential for space travel. The most likely incentive, however, was good pay and the reassurance that radioactive fallout could simply be washed off with soap and water. The nuclear tests, a Downing Street statement claimed, would be 'conducted in conditions which [would] ensure no danger whatsoever from radioactivity to the health of people or animals of the Commonwealth'. This lie, of course, was made in reference to physical health; the mental health of test participants was completely ignored. The fallout of this oversight would affect the lives of veterans for years to come...

Nuclear test at Maralinga

The first atomic bomb detonated at Maralinga was equal in power to the weapon that obliterated Hiroshima in 1945, with the seismographs monitored by scientists like Bernard recording shockwaves up to 1,000 km away. Alas, the personnel involved in the test weren't afforded the luxury of distance from the blast. Troops, scientists and observers were positioned as little as five miles away from ground zero, with many watching from the beach and dressed only in shorts and sandals. The observers, dressed for a day at the beach rather than for doomsday, experienced the full horror of a nuclear detonation: the blinding flash, the hellish shockwave and the billowing spectre of the mushroom cloud, with radioactive fallout raining down on them all the while. Also subjected to these terrors were many of the Aboriginal people of Maralinga, for warning signs ordering immediate evacuation of the area posted before the test were printed in English, which many Aborigines could not read.   

Estimates suggest that around 22,000 people were subjected to British open air weapons testing in the 1950s, at sites including Maralinga, Christmas Island, the Montebello Islands and Malden Island. In addition to his work at these locations, Bernard Downhill also travelled to Canada and the South Pacific with the Atomic Weapons Research Authority, and participated in the testing of Blood Hound missile systems in Australia. He witnessed seven nuclear explosions, each one involving a weapon with enough firepower to millions of innocent people. 

How could a person be expected to return to normal family life after witnessing such appalling sights? With great difficulty. Research by the Ministry of Defence has since admitted that nuclear test veterans have been more likely than other military personnel to suffer from 'memories triggering shame, guilt, rage, disgust, emptiness and despair'. PTSD, depression and other mental health disorders have been horrifyingly commonplace among veterans, with a 2022 report stating that of 303 deaths of British nuclear veterans within 10 years of the tests, 148 were from intentional self-harm or suicide. The knowledge that one's own government could be capable of knowingly inflicting harm on its own people — and simultaneously threatening to inflict nuclear devastation on 'enemy' nations — all too often triggered feelings of betrayal in veterans, leading to 'relational safety and trust issues with family, friends, and institutions such as the NHS and the government.' Many scientists and seismologists such as Bernard Downhill were additionally tormented by the guilt of having aided the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction. All veterans lived in constant fear of physical sickness as a result of radiological damage, with the additional worry and regret that health implications could be transferred to future offspring in the form of genetic mutations. 

Guilt, betrayal, anger and fear; is it any wonder that thousands of nuclear test veterans felt socially isolated and irreparably severed from the peaceful world of home, family and friends? For them, nuclear war would be forever raging in the battlefield of the mind. 

For Bernard Downhill, it seems that the only tactic that could secure something resembling victory in this war of conscience and betrayal was to admit defeat in his current life and leave to begin another. Perhaps he felt that his wife and children would be happier without his presence constantly reminding them of the nuclear threat. Maybe he felt that returning to his roots in the north of England would help him to recapture the optimism and hope of his youth. Or could it be that he simply needed to have his faith in humanity restored? As a homeless person, it would be the generosity and kindness of total strangers and only the most loyal of friends that would keep him alive and comfortable. It's likely that Bernard needed to prove to himself that, although nuclear weapons could indiscriminately give out devastation, humankind could give out kindness just as indiscriminately. 

Luckily for Bernard, he found the compassion he sought. After he left his family home in Essex in 1966, he headed north, back to his childhood stomping ground. For years he lived in barns and outbuildings belonging to old acquaintances and new friends, before moving into a boarding house in Lancaster in the mid 1980s. His quest for further confirmation that the human race could be kind led him to abandon the boarding house in the 1990s, choosing to move onto the streets and live on the soul-affirming benevolence of others. The Lancaster Homeless Action Centre repeatedly extended an offer of permanent shelter to Bernard, but were always graciously turned down with a reply that he 'wasn't ready to hang up his boots yet'. 

As locals got to know the 'perfect gentleman' who liked to 'sit near the Lancaster canal or in Market Square, chatting to people and soaking up the sun', their benevolence and charity billowed like a mushroom cloud. The manager of the Marketgate shopping centre in Lancaster city centre allowed Bernard to treat the shopping centre as his home, giving him full use of the facilities, even when the centre had closed for the night. The manager at the hair salon opposite his favourite bench provided him with haircuts when needed, as well as regular cups of coffee. The staff of a nearby cafe gave him food. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that when it came to honouring Bernard's life at a memorial service in November 2001, hundreds of people turned up to pay their respects.

The memorial service held at Lancaster's St. Peter's Cathedral was attended by Bernard's 'family and those who knew him from his past role as a nuclear scientist. The majority, though, we those who knew him from his more recent life spent on the city's streets.' Canon Alf Hayes, who delivered the service, included the following words in his eulogy: 

'Although Bernard was a man of no affiliation, he was a spiritual man. He saw no social division. Everybody had equal value, regardless of their position in society.'

Just as the nuclear weapons he had helped to develop would not discriminate between rich and poor and those with or without shelter, so too did Bernard not discriminate between people. His faith in human kindness, and perhaps too his belief that he needed redemption for his role in the nuclear arms race, was emphasised by the song sung at the end of the service: it was The Old Rugged Cross, a copy of which had been found in Bernard's pocket when he died. The hymn tells of Jesus sacrificing himself for humanity's sins, and promises eternal life and forgiveness for those who keep their faith in times of darkness.  Bernard may not have carried a rugged cross, but he did carry the weight of a nuclear missile on his conscience. Through his unshakeable belief in human goodwill, he drew friends to him and proved that eternal life — of a sort — is indeed possible who deserves to be remembered. For Bernard's legacy lives on...

On 24th December 2004, two years after Bernard's passing, Lancaster Homeless Action Group opened their annual Christmas shelter, offering food, warmth and company to scores of people in need over the festive season. The shelter's name? The Bernard Downhill Homeless Shelter. In attendance to cut the ribbon and pronounce the shelter open was Bernard's son, Craig, accompanied by his own two adult children. Though they had never met their grandfather, they could nonetheless see the ripple effect his life had made on his local community. "I think it's marvellous," Craig told the local press. 

Meanwhile, Bernard's daughter Kate Downhill fulfilled her father's dream of moving down under, emigrating to Australia in 2009. "He absolutely loved Australia and wanted us to live here," she told the Australian Daily Telegraph in 2016. She went on to say that she has buried a lock of Bernard's hair in the desert near to the Maralinga atomic test site. Kate Downhill is today a successful artist, who uses traditional quilting to raise awareness of the sacrifices made by nuclear test veterans during the 1950s. Much of her work features family anecdotes and references to her father, ensuring that Bernard Downhill's name remains at the fore as the physical and mental health struggles of nuclear test veterans continue to come to light. 

Decades have passed since the trauma of the British atomic weapons tests led nuclear seismologist Bernard Downhill to shun society's expectations in favour of a hand-to-mouth existence on the streets, relying on the generosity of strangers for survival. The shockwaves created by the thermonuclear blasts he witnessed have long since faded. But, to this day, other waves are reverberating across the world. They are shockwaves that cannot be picked up by seismographs, but have world-altering powers nonetheless. They are the waves of change brought about by the life of Bernard Downhill, a 'life less ordinary.'

By Rebecca Shaw 

References

• artblart.com/tag/kate-downhill.
• 'Atomic bomb trials at Maralinga sent artist  kate Downhill's father on walkabout', Elizabeth Fortescue, published on www.dailytelegraph.com.au 22/09/2016.
• 'British Atomic Testing  in Australia', allshookup.org.
• 'British Nuclear Test Veterans Given Mental Heath Grant', Gabriel McKay, The Herald Scotland, 28/10/2022.
• The Lancaster Guardian, 12/10/2001; 16/11/2001; 02/01/2004.
• Nottingham Evening Post, 18/02/1952.
• Overkill: The Story of Modern Weapons, John Cox.
• Protect and Survive, HM Government.
• The Morecambe Guardian, 12/10/2001.
• The Morecambe Visitor, 10/10/2001; 17/10/2001.