MY DAD, THE AIR FORCE DOCTOR

dad,My the AIR FORCE DOCTOR

PHYSICIAN AND FLIGHT LIEUTENANT EDWARD THORNE SERVED WITH THE RCAF FROM 1941 TO 1946, AND TREATED HUNDREDS OF GRATEFUL FLYERS

By STEPHEN J. THORNE

the nooks and crannies ofmy parents’ red-brick house in Halifax held many secrets and, as a child, my insatiable curiosity took me into closets, drawers, attic and basement, most often in search of my father’s past.

Edward Lefferts (Ted) Thorne III wasborn on Friday, June 13, 1913, and some might say he was cursed. He’d likely tell them otherwise.

He had survived tuberculosis, and lost his mother—a First World War nurse— and brother to the same dreaded disease. He had seen his father lose all in the Depression and his first wife drop dead from a brain hemorrhage. Hewould lose a daughter to breast cancer.

But in his 90 years on this earth, Dr.Thorne—my dad—delivered hundreds of babies, saved hundreds of lives and, by the time he retired from general practice at87, he had cultivated hundreds of relationships, mostly good.

He witnessed the rise of the automobile, the airplane, television and the Internet—although he never touched acomputer. He watched, spellbound,

Edward Thorne was a medical officer in the Royal Canadian Air Force from 1941 to 1946.

Thorne and his wife Edith exchanged 476 letters while he was overseas. This canvas bag labelled “First Aid Outfit (Aircraft)” was stocked with his medical equipment.

asAmerica and the USSR embarked on the space race, culminating in Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk.

Yet the central event of my father’s life, the experience that stayed withhim until the day he died and changed him perhaps more than any other, was the time he spent as a medical officer in the Royal Canadian Air Force between 1941 and 1946.

He rarely talked about it and, when he did, it was with such nostalgia, deep emotion and soaring reverence for those with whom he served that he sparked my curiosity and captivated my imagination from childhood to this very day.

Those five years were, as Dickens wrote in A Tale of Two Cities, the best of times and the worst, “it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

He left my mother Edith as a strapping, youthful air force officer and returned to her 31 months later a broken man who, like so many of his time, had lost friends and seen horrors. But somehow he managed to press on to live a full and productive life despite the demons that haunted him.

His past fascinated me and, as a child, I would crawl into the back of his bedroom closet, find the stacks of shoeboxes filled with letters, mementoes and loose photographs and sit there, behind the hanging clothes, enthralled.

Hanging in a musty basement closet was his flight jacket, with air force caducei on the collar and “June ’44” written inside (he dated everything his whole life—clothes, books, tools). His officer’s hat was propped on an overhead pipe in his workroom. A khaki brown “First Aid Outfit (Aircraft),” still stocked with vials, pills and wraps, hung from a post—not to be touched under any circumstance. (I touched it.)

He kept a photo album in the bottom drawer of his dresser, alongside his service revolver and two knives, their blades and part of their handles fashioned by an aircraftman from the damaged propeller of a Spitfire. The rest of the ringed handles were made of glass taken from Spitfire and Messerschmitt cockpits.

He’d been with two vaunted Spitfire squadrons, 401 and 416, in Scotland and the south of England, as well as 422—a Coastal Command squadron—in Northern Ireland andBomber Command in northernEngland.

He was a meticulous man, and on the backs of the hundreds of photographs he took with his Kodak folding camera were detailed notes identifying his subjects, the locations and the dates. Sometimes, there would be additional information.

“R.J. (Paddy) Turp Dec ’42 Redhill, Surrey,” said one, a halffaded shot of a 416 pilot in full kit, his parachute slung haphazardly over his shoulder, oozing the swagger and bravado of the classic air warrior, roguishly grinning through an Errol Flynn moustache. “Shot down with 3 others returning from France, Feby ’43.”

Indeed, Flying Officer Robert JackTurp of Aurora, Ont., the records show, trained in Summerside, P.E.I., and was killed in action, shot down by FW-190s on an escort mission near Calais on Feb. 3, 1943, the only one of the four to die that day.

There were pictures of a pilot friend, Flt. Lt. Thomas Karl Ibbotson of Radisson, Sask.,

on his motorcycle. One image showed my dad at 401 Squadron dispersal, Redhill, in June 1943. He’s seated on a bicycle holding onto the roof bracket of a Willy’s jeep.

“Jeep of two Americans attached to us,” it says on the back. “Later ran into Ibbotson on his motor bike and killed him.”

A diary entry dated Aug. 3, 1943, notes “Ibby killed on motor bike on Saturday, Delbridge. Today—sorted his things. Funeral Ibby and Dal at Brookwood at 3p.m. Abbott and Costello picture, not much.” FO Ralph Balkwill Delbridge from Exeter, Ont., the records show, crashed and died at Underhill Farm, Bucklands, Surrey.

Relations with our American cousins, it seemed, were not always all sweetness and light. On April21, 1944, my dad noted: “F/O Wright jaw fractured in three places by Americans.” There is at least one other reference to a broken jaw; whether Americans were involved may never be known.

My dad often spoke of “Studholme”—Flt. Lt. Al Studholme, it turned out, a great friend. Dad had fond memories of them hoarding care packages from home and getting together periodically, combining their takes and feasting.

His diaries—there are two, covering 1943 and 1944-45— make numerous references to “cribbage with Stud.” There’s a picture in his album of “Bill Tew and Erks looking at a flak hole in Stud’s wing; flak from a train in France. 401-126 AF, Oct ’43.”

Studholme was lucky that day. It missed his ammunition bay by inches. His luck, however, wouldn’t last. Or would, depending on how you look at it.

One day, Studholme and his wingman, Flt. Lt. Harry Deane Macdonald of Toronto, headed off in their brand-new Spits to link up with a B-17 mission returning from Germany. They never came back. My dad noted on Nov. 30, 1943: “MacDonald lost. Studholme?”

A couple of weeks later, on Dec. 11, 1943, he “wrote Mrs. Studholme.”

He never knew what happened to his friend. At least, he didn’t remember. On Jan. 21, 1944, however, his diary recorded a “letter from Mrs. Studholme. Al p of w.”

A half-century later, I was covering the last reunion of Canadian PoWs for The Canadian Press in Halifax. I ran into a pilot from 401 Squadron. He didn’t know my dad but he knew guys who did, including Al Studholme, who was living in Toronto.

I looked up my father’s old friend and called him, eventually linking him to my dad over the phone and recording their conversation as the wartime buddies caught up on 50 years of life.

My dad’s first question: What happened???

Studholme said he and his wingman reached the German border. Fuel capacity at the time allowed fighters to go no farther. They could see the bombers coming when both their engines inexplicably quit.

Macdonald, Studholme said, turned out to sea and was never seen again (see sidebar on page 47). Studholme got his engine restarted, only to have it quit again. He bailed out and was captured, spending the rest of the war in a German Stalag.

The two old men—both would have been in their 80s at the time— spoke warmly for a while and that was it. For all his fond memories, Dad never attended reunions nor, as far as I could tell, did he maintain ties with any wartime mates.

His role as medical officer put him in a difficult position with some pilots. He sometimes had to ground a man, never a popular decision. He told of a disagreement he’d had with one commanding officer over a pilot who was showing signs of mental distress. My dad wanted to ground the guy, at least temporarily. His CO refused it, saying his pilot would be fine. A few days later, that pilot got in his Spit and flew it into the sea.

Still, the pilots of the RCAF overseas had much to be thankful for in Flt. Lt. E.L. Thorne. His bedside manner was impeccable—warm, receptive, charming. Being sick in the Thorne household was one of the few times he diverted from his medical practice and gave his children his undivided attention and tender, loving care.

No doubt, the pilots he nurtured felt a similar bedside manner. His diaries reference daily sick parades, inoculating 300 air force personnel against typhus in one day, and collecting dead and wounded aircrew from the English countryside.

On Nov. 22, 1944, he was “up 12:30-5 a.m., to pick up parachutist with broken foot, crawled 3 mi.” On Jan. 17, 1945: “Crash 9 bodies.”

THE TWO OLD MEN— BOTH WOULD HAVE BEEN IN THEIR 80S AT THE TIME— SPOKE WARMLY FOR A WHILE AND THAT WAS IT.

He talked of using tweezers to pick dozens of pieces of shrapnel out of a pilot’s back. I still wear the Movado watch given to him by an American pilot out of gratitude for his care. “Athoroughly competent medical officer, very well liked by all personnel in the squadron,” Wing Commander L.P. McCullagh wrote in 1944.

His diaries tell of kites, prangs, Jerries, dos and rhubarbs. There are trips to the theatre, books he read, bombing raids and endless parties. Jan. 14, 1943: “Jackie Ray’s wedding. Two accidents. Big party.” Thefollowing day: “Quiet recovery.”

This was, in fact, Jackie Rae, politician Bob Rae’s uncle and a renowned Canadian entertainer. Hemarried Assistant Section Officer Susanna Mitchell of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Squadron Leader Lloyd Chadburn, the Canadian ace known to my dad and American bomber crews as “The Angel,” was groomsman. It would not be Jackie Rae’s last wedding, and Chadburn would die in a mid-air collision with another Spit over France on Dad’s 31st birthday, one week after D-Day.

His diaries recorded victories (July 6, 1943: “Sweep over St-Omer. Score 8-0!”) and defeats (Jan. 29, 1944: “Crashed Fort and Lib. 1 dead at 3 p.m.). On Jan. 24, 1944: “Shep bailed out. Picked up in 40 minutes by launch 10mi off Boulogne Harb at noon.”

My dad spoke bitterly of an incident in which Germans bombed a theatre full of kids. A plane was shot down and my dad was sent to collect the dead, retrieving the pilot’s pelvis from a treetop. He references the incident on July 9, 1943: “Felt awful. Dornier 2[17] crashed near Bletchley after bombing theatre.”

Entries in my father’s diaries were often punctuated with a number—145, 103, etc. They were counting the letters to and from my mom. On D-Day, June 6, 1944: “D-Day! At Castle Archdale. 144 and 147 from Edith. 176.”

Her letters generally took a month to reach him. In the two years the diaries covered, he wrote her 273 letters and received 203. She also sent him care packages, often with cigarettes. He sent her cables. And gifts. In the back of one diary is a touching list of my mother’s 28-year-old measurements and sizes: 5’2”; Size 6AA shoes; hand 6”; head 221/2, etc.

BY THE END OF THE TWO YEARS THE DIARIES COVERED, HE HAD WRITTEN HER 273 LETTERS AND RECEIVED 203.

Castle Archdale was in Northern Ireland, home to 422 and 423 Squadrons. It sounded like the end of the Earth—a cold, barren, windswept place. Posted there in March 1944, my father had a fireplace in his room and waged constant war with mice, who kept him up at night. He got traps and kept a tally: 21 at last count.

The day he arrived at the castle, on March 10, 1944, he spent 34 shillings on taxis and tips and noted that “422 got sub tonight.”

This was U-625, sunk with all 53 hands west of Ireland by depth charges from a Sunderland flown by Flt. Lt. Sydney William Butler, DFC. The U-boat captain, Oberleutnant zur See Siegfried Straub, and many of his crew made it to life rafts but were lost in a storm the following night.

On April 24, 1944: “423 kite attacked sub this afternoon—probable. Pretty badly shot up, nobody injured.” The records show an attack on U-672, skippered by Oblt. UlfLawaetz. The Sunderland flown by Flt. Lt. G. Fellows launched the attack southwest of Ireland at 1:39p.m. The U-boat was severely damaged, and so was the aircraft after a depth charge detonated prematurely, almost bringing it down.

According to 423’s Operations Record Book, “the force of this explosion was such as to throw up the entire moveable contents of the aircraft—floorboards, I.F.F. [Identify Friend/Foe] set, crockery, eggs and oven, forming a new variety of omelet.”

It knocked out electrical circuits, severed cables, opened wing seams and disabled the port flaps. “But the principal damage was to the elevator which needed all the skill and strength of the Captain assisted by the Second Pilot to counteract.”

The crew were moved forward of the main spar to help maintain trim. Still, they stayed on-station for 36 minutes after the attack.

As Allied forces approached Rome, my father noted that six aircrews out of Castle Archdale were patrolling the Norwegian coast. Just three in 20 U-boats were getting out undetected.

He moved on to Bomber Command in northern England, from which he recounted the tale of a fresh young recruit who took the tail-gun position of a B-17 the morning after he arrived, only to return ankle-deep in shell casings and needing help to peel his fingers from his .50-calibre machine gun.

One of Dad’s last diary entries came on Feb. 15, 1945: “Collected body RM Ward. Any day now. Walked with Orp and packed.”

The hole in this Spitfire’s wing was caused by “flak from a train in France.” The aircraft was piloted by 401 Squadron’s Flt. Lt. Al Studholme, one of Thorne’s best friends during the war.

My father left the air force in 1946 and was in and out of the army and air force reserve for the next two decades, finally retiring from military duty a major in 1968. He spent his postwar life in the endless pursuit of learning. He read constantly. He researched developments in medicine, tinkered with his beloved cars, experimented in carpentry and mechanics, listened to symphonies and operas on the radio.

Somewhat eccentric, he was a collector of things, born of the Depression-era mentality that everything must be saved, from corks and string to elastic bands and twist ties. He kept jars full of salvaged nails, screws, nuts and bolts. He was into recycling before recycling was even a thing.

Rationing was a way of life in our household. Occasionally, my dad would break out a banana and a box of Baker’s brand semi-sweet dark chocolate. He would cut a few squares and present me with two, sometimes three, insisting I take a bite of banana with each bite of chocolate.

One September day in 1998,

I was heading back to The

Canadian Press office in Halifax after spending nearly 24 hours at the scene of the Swissair

Flight 111 crash off Peggy’s Cove,

N.S. I was driving past my dad’s office when I saw him crossing the street. I pulled over, opened the passenger-side window, and told him I’d spent the day aboard a small fishing boat out on the water, at the crash site. I didn’t need to tell him what we found there. He knew. He nodded, pursed his lips and studied my face: “I know, son,” he said. “I know where you’ve been.” There was a silence and then I headed off.

It was probably the most poignant moment we’d ever had. I returned to the newsroom and wrote the words: “The lives of the 229 passengers and crew who died aboard Swissair Flight 111 float by in 100,000 tiny pieces.”

My life would never be the same again. L

MACDONALD’S FATE

In his bookLucky 13, Hugh Godefroy, another colleague of my dad’s, had the answer to what happened to Flight Lieutenant Harry Deane Macdonald, DFC with bar, who was lost while flying to link up with a B-17 mission returning from Germany after the Spitfire he was flying lost engine power:

“Two of his squadron flew with him while he glided back,” wrote Godefroy. They were in heavy cloud before coming out 1,500 feet above the water.

“Dean tried to bail by pushing the stick forward to throw himself out over the top. The two fellows who were with him said he landed astride the aircraft, impaled on the radio mast and rode it into the sea.” —S.J.T.

Cash In On Your Home Equity

It’s a typical scenario for Canadians today: You’re headed for retirement, and you’re starting to worry that your savings aren’t going to last your lifetime, or that you’ll carry big debt into your senior years.

For several reasons, the retirement plan that worked for your grandparents may not be such a fail-safe strategy for newer generations. Fewer of us have company pension plans, and low interest rates mean the investments we’ve been trying to build aren’t so robust after all. Plus Canadians are living a lot longer. Right now, if you’re 65, there’s a 50-50 chance you or your spouse will live to at least 92.

On the other hand, many of us are living in a house or condo that’s partially or fully paid off. A reverse mortgage is a loan specifically for Canadians age 55 or older, secured against the equity in the home.

It’s a loan with no monthly mortgage payments and that you don’t have to pay back until you move out and sell the house, or until you pass away.

Reverse mortgages have been offered here in Canada for 30 years, but there are still a lot of myths about them. The truth is, a reverse mortgage may not be for everyone, but it may be for you. Here are 5 of the most commonly held myths about reverse mortgages.

Is a Reverse Mortgage for you? First, forget the myths.

MYTH

I’ll Lose My Home

Many people worry that getting a reverse mortgage can lead to getting kicked out of their home or giving up ownership, but this isn’t how it works. You keep the title to your house, and you aren’t ever forced to sell or move. Your obligations are to keep paying your property tax and insurance and keep your house in good shape. Not only are you at no risk of losing your home, a reverse mortgage can be the solution that allows you to stay in it for as long as you wish.

MYTH

I Could Get Cheated Out Of My Money

In Canada, the only company to offer reverse mortgages is HomEquity Bank. Because it’s a bank, it’s strictly regulated and supervised by the federal government. Canada’s banking system is considered one of the safest in the world. HomEquity Bank has been in business for 30 years and takes a very conservative approach to lending; for instance, your reverse mortgage will never exceed the value of your home. So you aren’t getting swindled, and in fact HomEquity regularly receives referrals from other banks and mortgage brokers.

MYTH

The Interest Rates Are Unfair

The interest rates on a reverse mortgage are higher than conventional mortgages. That doesn’t mean they’re unreasonable. They’re calculated this way because homeowners aren’t asked to make payments on the money until the house is sold, and that may not be for decades. Interest rates on reverse mortgages are considerably lower than other forms of debt like credit cards, retail store debt and private mortgages (if you don’t qualify for a conventional mortgage).

MYTH

A Reverse Mortgage Comes With Expensive Fees

This myth probably originated in the U.S., where reverse-mortgage lenders haven’t been tightly regulated and have commonly charged $10,000 or more in fees. Certainly there are fees in Canada too, because in order for the bank to process your reverse mortgage it must conduct title searches, prepare documents and retain legal services. But here, these administrative costs are fixed, and don’t usually exceed $1,500 at the most. Your home also needs to be appraised, but that shouldn’t cost more than $400. Before signing the mortgage documents, all homeowners are required to get independent legal advice (usually costing $300 to $600) to ensure they understand the terms and are protected.

MYTH

A Reverse Mortgage Only Makes Sense As A Last Resort

It depends on your financial situation, but there are several reasons why a reverse mortgage may be an ideal solution for you. If you’re holding credit card debt at a much higher interest rate, for example, a reverse mortgage allows you to clear that debt. It may benefit you if you’re trying to avoid the costs associated with moving or downsizing – realtor fees, home staging, movers and condo fees, for instance. The cash provided to you by a reverse mortgage is tax free, lower risk and long term. It can be a valuable tool to help you stay in your home in your retirement and conserve your savings.

Now that you know the facts from the myths doesn’t it make sense to secure your own future with a CHIP Reverse Mortgage too?

Get Peace Of Mind And Stop Worrying That Your Savings Aren’t Going To Last Your Lifetime. Get What You Own To Work For You.

Unlock the value in your home

Remember, a reverse mortgage is a loan specifically for Canadians like you, age 55 or older, that lets you as a homeowner convert a portion of the value of your house or condo into tax-free cash*.

It’s your Home, your Cash

Use your cash any way you wish*: • To supplement your retirement income •To make a special trip or purchase •To pay off debt, or for medical expenses •To remodel or retrofit your home •To help your kids or grandkids

No Monthly Mortgage Payments

•Unlike a conventional mortgage or a home equity line of credit, a reverse mortgage requires no monthly mortgage payments as long as you live in your home.

You are always in control

•You retain title, control and ownership of your own home during the life of the loan. •You can sell your home or condo at any time; just meet your obligations of maintaining your home, paying property taxes and homeowner’s insurance.

*some conditions apply

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