PER ARDUA — Life, Love and Courage
The American-French author Anaïs Nin once wrote that “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” I believe this deeply. The most powerful feelings about family, love and the simple beauty of just breathing are paired with the greatest fears and danger. It is the soldier pressing his body hard to the ground in a slit trench during a mortar attack who understands the love of his mother more than any man. It is the wounded pilot fighting hard to keep his battered and smoking Halifax bomber steady for home on three engines who fully grasps the true nature of the love of his fellow crewmen. It is the young American boy who, slipping out of the cockpit of his Mosquito and taking in a deep, fragrant breath of Norfolk County evening air, feels the life drawn back into his body and, in so doing, understands the great incongruity of those contradictory bed mates—fear and life.
It is no wonder then, that combat veterans have difficulty adjusting to an ordinary life when they come home to places like Dauphin, Manitoba, Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia or Carleton Place, Ontario. To go from a rolling, scissoring dog fight high in the azure blue of a Belgian sky or from the heart-pounding headlong rush of a low level sortie across the polders and farmlands of Holland to the slow, clock-ticking, paper shuffling meaninglessness of a government office job or listening to the litany of complaints of unhappy customers in a shoe store is an unbearable contrast.
Family and friends assume the returned aviator will be overjoyed and grateful to have survived the tribulations, deprivations and obscene lethality of total war. They cannot fully understand the stresses felt by a young man or woman returning from all-out war to the ordinariness of peace. It is not the fear and death those young, beautiful people were addicted to. It is not the obscenity of war. It is not the extreme high stress of entering hell that they need. Rather, it is the deeply profound euphoria of coming OUT of hell that they seek. It is the powerful feelings of love and joy and living, intertwined with the fear and horror that they have become addicted to. The love of comrades. The unbridled joy of accomplishment. The profound power of shared hardship. The life nearly taken and then given back. The cold draught of life slaking the thirst of fear.
Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the willingness to go forward in the face of fear. For people like me, the test of courage at this level will never come. Like any young man growing up, I wondered (and in fact still wonder at 62) if I had the mettle and the inner strength to survive such adversity and fear with an intact heart and mind. Or would I have the letters LMF put next to my name—Lack of Moral Fibre. As all of us did in our childhood, I acted out these scenarios, imagining myself a great hero, a brave young man, and a saviour of humanity. My imagination had me fighting Nazis from a foxhole, sending Teutonic killers down in flames or, wearing a white cowboy hat, riding a white stallion and spinning pearl-handled six-guns, saving the family of my neighbourhood dream girl from heartless burglars.
Thanks to the courage of our men and women in uniform in the Second World War and all conflicts since then, I will never find out about what I would have been like under these extreme conditions. Thanks to them, I will not have the burden of the memory of horror and loss either.
Over the past year, through a wonderful written relationship with a veteran of the Second World War, I have learned new lessons about this concept of courage. His name is Bob Kirkpatrick. His flying friends call him “Kirk”. He is an American who joined the Royal Canadian Air Force after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. He trained right here in Ottawa at No. 2 Service Flying Training School at Uplands. He received his wings from none other than Billy Bishop. He went overseas and trained to be a multi-engine fighter-bomber pilot. He flew the beautiful and lethal de Havilland Mosquito with 21 Squadron, Royal Air Force. He took part in one of the most famous bombing raids of the Second World War—the low level, surprise attack on Gestapo headquarters in downtown Copenhagen, Denmark. He survived the war. Now, at 92 years old, he fights yet again.
One of Kirk’s good friends, an Englishman named Hugh Bone, who presently lives in Sweden had this to say about Kirk, whom he met at an Operational Training Unit:
“Kirk and I first met when we were on the same Beaufighter OTU at Crosby on Eden, No. 9 Coastal. We then did the No. 13 Mossie OTU at Bicester after which we were posted to 140 Wing, Kirk to 21 Sqdn and I to 487. After VE Day, volunteers such as Kirk, a Yank in the RCAF, were quickly repatriated and I lost touch with him but was re-united some 12 to 15 years ago through our connection to the Mossie Forum. Kirk was a natural born pilot and was really a fighter pilot destined to fight his war on twins. He went to the extremes with both Beau and Mossie, successfully performing aerobatics that were both forbidden and unadvised. I considered myself a pretty fair pilot but Kirk was better than most, I admired his skills and am honoured to call him a good and well loved friend...”
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Needless to say, courage was something he and his comrades had in spades, as every one of these accomplishments was paired with great personal risk and the steady erosion of squadron mates to death and capture. Regardless of the risks, which they knew full well, they pressed on, fueled by a blend of skill, invincibility, fatalism, pride, duty, honour, testosterone and love for their comrades.
When the war was won, millions of men and women, like Kirk and Hugh, put down their weapons, collected their demobilization papers, signed the paymaster’s form one last time, hung their battle dress in the closet, and began the surprisingly difficult process of settling back into a workaday world they had left years before. Highly skilled fighting men, with recent memories of crossing the Atlantic, seeing Liverpool, Paris, London, Piccadilly, Essen and Berlin now looked upon Des Moines, Iowa; Davidson, Saskatchewan and Truro, Nova Scotia and tried to put everything in perspective.
For the majority of returning military pilots, their final Return to Base or their last, mad, sightseeing dash across Germany after the war to see the devastation, would be the last flight they would ever take the command seat for. Aviation, though it had occupied their every waking hour for years, no longer found itself with the same importance—life, love, family, business, education, income and memories of terror all played into the fact that most pilots and aircrew put flying behind them. Some, however, would continue to fly—as regular air force pilots, in the reserve units, or as commercial airline, crop-dusting or bush pilots. A tiny fraction was still flying in combat as late as the Vietnam War.
Bob Kirkpatrick and Hugh Bone both declare themselves, in a gentle self-deprecating manner, as “tail-enders”, men who came late to the war and whose contribution paled in comparison to others. These of course are the voices of humble men who have sworn to some unspoken oath which states that the terrible things that happened to them during the war, that the deaths and injury to their friends and their shared sacrifice would be dishonoured if a man were to brag or gain heroic status by self aggrandizement or self-promotion. In fact, Bob Kirkpatrick began his service in 1942, following a path that lead him to night and low-level daylight intruder operations on the magnificently agile, mightily powerful and beautifully sculpted aircraft known as the Mosquito—the Wooden Wonder.
Though they call themselves “tail-enders”, Bob and Hugh were well into the fray by the fall of 1944. Of his more than three years in the RCAF, Kirkpatrick trained and flew on operations for almost two years. He flew 24 combat operations over enemy territory and he flew in one of the most talked-about low level raids of the war—the attack on Gestapo headquarters in Copenhagen known as the Shell House Raid. By the end of the war, nearly everyone was a “tail-ender”, as most of the old timers had completed tours, gone home, been injured, were in POW camps or had been killed on operations and in training. One thing is for sure, when he was de-mobbed in August 1945, Bob Kirkpatrick did not yet have his fill of flying. Not by a long shot.
While Bob would never see another Mosquito fly from the time he slipped out of the starboard side crew door of the 21 Squadron Mosquito he was allowed to fly back to England on his way home, until this year, he would go on to a flying career totaling some 20,000 hours, and none of it drilling a hole on the sky as an airline pilot. Bob returned home to find his high school sweetheart Ginny waiting for him. He settled in to a life in the peace and prosperity of postwar America.
Bob had feet that were meant to roam however. Over their nearly 70 years of marriage, Bob and Ginny moved around the Midwest, occupying no fewer than 26 separate homes. After the war, he acquired three surplus Navy Stearmans from Wichita Falls, Texas and ran a crop spraying operation but, for much of his life, he used his Piper Chieftain and Beech Baron and other company aircraft to deal in cattle. Throughout his life, Bob Kirkpatrick made sure he made time to enjoy the hard won peace he fought for. Every month he would set aside a week to roam, to fly, to fish (from James Bay to Chandeleur Island in the Gulf of Mexico), or relax in the Bahamas. Having hung his toes over the edge of the abyss during the war, the former Mosquito pilot had a sense for how to extract the best from life. Having seen what he had seen and done what he had done, he was never going to let himself slide backwards to mediocrity.
Courage is not the purview of youth.
My friendship with the elegant Bob Kirkpatrick began as an email question from him relating to a story on this very Vintage News site. I am not entirely sure how Bob Kirkpatrick came to be a subscriber to our weekly story service. Perhaps he was one of the thousands of email addresses I have shanghaied around the world and pressed into service; perhaps he signed on willingly. Shortly after publishing a story entitled Rock of Ages, about the discovery of new (to us) photographs of Flying Officer Rolland “Rocky” Robillard, for whom our P-51D Mustang is dedicated, I was contacted by Kirkpatrick with a curious question, one for which we have never really found an answer. He wrote: “A note of appreciation to the folks at Vintage Wings. I enjoy your frequent emails and stories. Particularly this Rock of Ages. I received my wings in June 1943 at Uplands, # 1 Squadron. Robert Kirkpatrick, J27206. While in the RCAF, can’t remember when, but possibly during my time at Uplands, I had heard about an evasive fighter maneuver, the Robillard Roll. The following is from a housebound 90+ year old whose memory is often questioned. However, it seems that the Robillard Roll consisted of a feint vertical bank to the left followed by full stick forward, like a bunt when straight and level, followed by a roll to the right, back to a vertical left bank. Apparently this could end up with the pursued becoming the pursuer. Has anybody heard of this or performed it? Anyway, thanks to Vintage Wings, keep those e-mails coming.” – Kirk
And so began a winter long correspondence. It was through this correspondence that I came to know Kirk and a little about his story. I began to consider him my friend, as we shared feelings and vignettes of the things in our lives that were dear to us, like our wives, dogs, children and travel. Over the winter I learned that this articulate, passionate and humorous man was 92, and that his health was in serious jeopardy. Bob is a private man, and he was not instantly forthcoming about his long fight with cancer. But now and then I could detect that he was suffering from some very serious pain issues and at times had difficulty writing on the computer. Regardless, Bob was not going let this to stop him from speaking about the beauty of his life and the characters, dogs, aircraft and adventures that coloured his long and satisfying life. I won’t go into this much further, but understand that Bob Kirkpatrick, despite his 92 years and constant pain, was full of happiness, pride, warm feelings, good humour and above all courage.
At 92 and in pain, you could understand if a man simply allowed himself to fade away, to stop his engagement with the world he lives in. This did not happen with Bob. He simply took some medication and reached out via the internet to old friends like fellow Mosquito pilot Hugh Bone and new friends like me. Together, we followed the developments of the Av Spec Mosquito restoration in Ardmore, New Zealand, shared our life’s small pleasures and enjoyed each other’s company, even if it was a tenuous electronic link. As the Mosquito story grew, Bob seemed to be the first with new images and videos of the roll-out and flight testing.
Sometime in the middle of February, I learned that the Yagen Mosquito was going to make an appearance at the Hamilton Airshow at the Canadian Warplane Heritage Museum. I had it in my head that it would be such a wonderful thing for him to come to the show and see his old sky-dancing partner one more time. I posed a question to him, even though I knew he was suffering and sometimes bed ridden: “Would your health preclude you from going to the Hamilton Airshow to see the Mosquito?” I truly thought he would decline, but he left a window open immediately: “Probably, but I won’t say I can’t. Who knows what the future will bring? If OK, I would need a golf cart or such I’m only good for 100 ft or so walking with a walker. You have presented me with a pleasant dream.”
I nearly cried.
Over the next few months a plan began to take shape, one that was entirely out of my hands. Bob and his wife Ginny have a pair of neighbours about the same age as their own kids—Deb and Dave Dodgen. Dave, a pilot and multiple aircraft owner, hog farmer and agricultural land appraiser, uses his aircraft in much the same way as Bob once did in his feeder cattle business. Dave and Deb originally thought that they would fly Bob to Hamilton, but soon Bob and Ginny’s comfort became the most important factor if this was to happen. The Dodgens came up with a new and astonishing plan—they would purchase a new Born Free recreational vehicle and drive Bob and Ginny all the way from Humboldt, Iowa to Hamilton, Ontario! The trip would take 6 days and cover more than 3,000 kilometers!
Per Ardua
Flying Officer Bob Kirkpatrick was an officer and a pilot in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He is, today, very proud of this fact and of his service and his Canadian wings. The Latin motto of the Royal Canadian Air Force and in fact all Commonwealth Air Forces, is Per Ardua ad Astra, which, in English, means Through adversity, to the Stars. So completely different than the more aggressive, jingoistic and somewhat less poetic motto for the USAF, Aim High ... Fly-Fight-Win, this Haiku-like sentiment of the RCAF remains a perfect and poetic phrasing of the work, risks, losses and ultimate victories of this remarkable and storied service. It is deeply beautiful in that it lays out, in two simple and contrasting halves, the powerfully contradictory Latin root words of “Ardua” and “Astra”. This balance, this admission of the existence of both the horrors and the glories, is sublime.
It is a motto that could be the personal motto of Flying Officer Robert Kirkpatrick, as he processed his beautiful life to this date. Bob learned early on that Ardua came with Astra, hell with heaven, work with play, loss with joy, pain with love and fear with courage. Bob embraced the difficulties of life for the sweetness of their overcoming. This is the true nature of all experience, not just in times of war. It took a man who I had never met, a man from the heartland of America, not Canada, a man of 92 years and an uncertain future, to show me that courage can be called for and answered throughout life and not just, as we often think, in times of war. And that is when I thought of the words of Anaïs Nin—“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”
No one could fault a 92-year-old man fettered with a continuous pain management regimen, if he declined an invitation to attend an outdoor airshow in the heat of summer, nearly 1,000 miles away. But Bob Kirkpatrick is a 92-year-old man on the outside, and a virile 24-year-old on the inside. He still thinks like a young man. He still looks out upon life as a young man. He saw that the pain, the work, and indeed the risks, if faced, could pay out in silver dollars—in one more life-confirming experience, one more time to see an old gal named Mossie, The Queen of the Skies, who once took him to Hell through the Ardua and brought him back to enjoy seventy years of stars at night and more than 25,000 sunrises.
He had the good fortune of two amazing neighbours who took up the challenge, the Ardua, with him, so that Bob and they themselves could eventually look up at the blue Hamilton sky, surrounded by the Astra of life. The stars this time would take the shape of a de Havilland Mosquito fighter-bomber surrounded by a constellation of warbirds.
It was good fortune to have Dave and Deb living right next door, but it was fortune of his own doing. He and Ginny are delightful and forthright human beings and the Dodgens grew to love them like family.
So, as the day drew near, I found that the impossible was about to happen. My friend, albeit one I had yet not met, was on his way, laying back in the air conditioned “private jet-like” comfort of a motorhome as it raced across the cornfields of Iowa, bound for a reunion with an icon, a celebration of life and friendship—one more glorious adventure in the life of a Royal Canadian Air Force pilot.
Here’s to Bob Kirkpatrick and the people who love him.