In 2000, Dame Vera Lynn was awarded the ‘Spirit of the Twentieth Century’ prize in a poll to pick the Briton who best exemplified this ‘spirit’. This seems like more of a compliment to Britain than it does to Vera Lynn. The latter is universally well-regarded, while the former… well, when I think of twentieth century Britain as having a ‘spirit’, many, sometimes contradictory, things spring to mind. Elitist, forgetful, dour, optimistic, pessimistic, fading. The Duke of Edinburgh seems more suitable: slightly intolerant, often offensive yet strangely likeable, a little bit racist, pompous, bent, old, and soon to die.
Vera Lynn, on the other hand, is kind of an amazing figure. She became the most popular singer during the Second World War in spite of politicians and senior BBC officials being broadly opposed to her popularity because her music was seen as maudlin and sentimental. Soldiers in the field needed strong, manly music! She jokes about this controversy in her autobiography, but I suspect that it was not quite so amusing at the time. At any rate, in 1943 she asked Basil Dean, the head of the ENSA – the Entertainment National Services Association, a body that organized entertainment for troops at home and overseas – where she could go to sing to soldiers and do the most good. Where were British soldiers neglected, and where was she most needed? The answer was, of course, Burma. Gamely, Lynn set out on what was her first trip outside of Western Europe.
She brought along her faithful accompanist, Len Edwards. He enjoyed the moderate extra incentive of her ENSA salary, which she gave to him to compensate for the ‘physical and professional hardships of the trip’ – Lynn herself did not need the extra ten pounds a week as badly as he did, presumably. Especially as her songs were the most popular in the British Empire at the time. I wasn’t able to find out much about him. He was not of sufficient status to get a Who’s Who entry, and (aside from a brief mention on one website) the internet is not kind to minor historical figures.
Lynn’s travelling troupe, like the soldiers they were entertaining, were plagued by bedbugs, bad food, intestinal difficulties, lack of hot water, high temperatures, and the occasional threat of Japanese artillery or bombs. Lynn insisted on visiting soldiers in hospital who had been unable to attend her concerts. The piano became more and more damaged, and no doubt less and less in tune – but this didn’t matter to the soldiers who had, in it and the voice of Lynn, a material sign of the fact that some people, at least, had not forgotten their corner of the war.
It’s hard not to make this story about how interesting (and, in some ways, wonderful) Lynn was, because Edwards is, and was, so anonymous. Lynn commented in her autobiography that the ENSA pay was ‘democratic’ – everyone got the same, no matter who they were – but memory and posterity are not. As a successful recording artist after as well as during the war, Lynn remains a public figure (helped by her good health and longevity). Edwards, who had an important part in the success of her sentimental tunes, has faded into a footnote.
Source: Vera Lynn, Some Sunny Day, My Autobiography (London: HarperCollins, 2009)