The Courage of the Early Morning

by William Arthur Bishop

  It was the second time Bishop had gone broke since the end of the war. But now his responsibilities were greater. He had a six-year-old son (me) and a three-year-old daughter. He had set a high standard of living for himself and his family—and certainly he was extremely reluctant to exchange his bon vivant mode of living for anything less pleasant.

  Bishop had an unshaken faith in the wisdom of Gordon Perry. who had been responsible for bringing him into the Delavaud ventures. It was Gordon to whom he now turned for assistance and advice. And for the second time it was Gordon who rescued him from financial jeopardy.

  Among other posts he held, Gordon was a director of McColl-Frontenac Oil Company, whose head offices were in Montreal. The oil business was thriving. McColl-Frontenac, an amalgamation of several companies, was keen on establishing itself as a leading contender in the market. “People will always buy oil and gasoline, no matter what they have to do without,” Perry told Bishop, offering him a vice-presidency in charge of sales promotion. The salary and expense account were generous enough for him to maintain his style of living—minus the polo ponies and the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.

  By the summer of the following year, 1930, the Bishops moved back to Canada. The man who by this time had become a part of the family, “Leffo” the chauffeur, came with them.

  In 1931 they moved into a large roof-garden penthouse on the slopes of Mount Royal overlooking the city.

  TWENTY-ONE

  MY FATHER

  IDID NOT, of course, know Billy Bishop, the war hero. Nor did I know the heedless, free-spending bon vivant sportsman of the twenties.

  As a small boy I was not conscious of Billy Bishop or what he had done. Traditionally, young boys learn the intimate facts of life from playmates a year or two older. So did I learn the facts about my father from boys who were old enough to be interested in reading the legends of World War I. But my recollection is that I was impressed by my father only because he impressed others, and I was actually quite unable to connect Bishop, the hero, with the man who was my father. How could I, when he behaved so much more like a friend than like a man whose fame rested on killing?

  Once when my sister and I were confined to bed with colds we got bored and decided to hurl all our books out the window. We lived on the seventh floor of the apartment building, and our window faced the courtyard.

  Downstairs my father said to my mother: “It’s nice that the children are quiet for once, instead of quarrelling.” But in a moment the doorman came up to the apartment to complain that “it’s raining books down there.”

  My father stormed into our bedroom ready to stop us and probably give us a stern lecture. But when he saw the fun we were having (my sister was throwing the books out two at a time) his mood changed abruptly. “All right,” he said with a twinkle, “just one more each—and I get the first throw.”

  Bishop set strange standards for himself and others. He approved of gaiety, even vulgarity, but they had to be disciplined. Few people have ever possessed such a repertoire of ribald jokes. (“The shorter the better—long jokes are boring.”) But they had to be told at the proper place and time.

  Appearances and dress were a fetish with him. The juvenile dandy at Owen Sound became the adult Beau Brummel of Montreal. His clothes were always made by the Savile Row tailors, Anderson and Shepherd. His shoes were especially built by Tuc-sec of London. He had his ties cut for him. He wore dark, striped double-breasted suits, starched collars, a dark homburg and always carried a cane. He would never allow a barber to use the clippers, and held to the notion that “a gentleman always wears his hair a bit long.”

  He was a master of flattery. To pregnant women, who in that condition welcome compliments, he would say, “I can tell, there is a joyful look in your eyes. ”He often confided mischievously,“They always believe it—it’s the nicest thing you can say.”

  More than once he also said: “Never say anything about anybody unless you have something nice to say.” And he would not tolerate gossip, but would simply walk away from such conversation. In his mid-forties, he was a massive man, with bulging biceps, a barrel of a chest and a growing girth. We called him “Fatty”—and he loved it.

  But in some respects the rules he laid down for me were unreasonable and illogical. For example although he gave me flying lessons in my early teens, he never allowed me the use of the family car, even when I was old enough to get a driving licence. “When you can afford your own car, then you drive,” he said.

  He also believed in inculcating an early appreciation of the value of money. Thus he put me on a monthly allowance at an early age. I had to buy my own clothes, pay my own transportation to and from boarding school, buy my own books, necessities and sports equipment. He did not believe in owning property, and all his life he lived in rented houses. “You only tie yourself down,” he maintained, and refused to argue the point.

  He never severed his connection with the Royal Canadian Air Force—the force which finally came into existence in 1924, six years after the war, and more than six years after he had been pulled back from the front line to organize it. In 1931, he was appointed Honorary Group Captain of the RCAF, but it was not an honour that gave him any great pleasure, because he was heartsick at what he considered to be the neglect by the government of the armed forces in general and the air arm in particular. By 1934 the activities of the RCAF had been reduced to the point where Canadian pilots were putting in barely a thousand hours a month of total flying time.

  In this year of 1934, when Canada’s preparedness was at its lowest ebb, my father had a strange and blood-chilling experience that finally convinced him that war with Nazi Germany was inevitable. Early that summer he was in England on business, and on impulse he wrote to Hermann Goering, with whom he got along well during that convivial evening in Berlin six years before. In 1928 Goering had been, as far as my father was aware, a friendly ex-enemy with some vaguely unorthodox political leanings. Now he was Hitler’s right-hand man and head of the resurgent German air force.

  Goering replied immediately. He would be delighted to see his distinguished former antagonist once more. Would Herr Bishop dine with him at the Berlin Aero Club on June 30?

  My father accepted. But at the last moment he decided not to go. After an exhausting week of business appointments, an invitation to spend a weekend at a friend’s country house seemed far more attractive than the long trip to Berlin. He wired his regrets to Goering and he and my mother drove down to the Sussex coast where a friend, Norman Holden, owned “The Priory,” a lavish estate.

  Next morning while my parents were playing croquet after breakfast, their host hurried out with the shocking news that had come over the radio: Hitler and Goering had staged the bloody night-long purge of their own party, starting with the murder of Ernst Roehm, head of the elite Nazi forces known as the Brown Shirts. It was an event that was to be stamped in the catalogue of Nazi crime as “The Night of the Long Knives.”

  My mother turned pale. “You might have been there!” she exclaimed. My father needed no reminder of the many unpleasant possibilities that might have resulted from his presence in Berlin that night. But that was conjecture, and more important was the certainty in his mind now that “The Night of the Long Knives” had demonstrated that the Nazis would use mass violence to gain their ends. If they would slaughter their own friends so ruthlessly, what would they not attempt against their chosen enemies?

  My father returned to Canada determined to renew his efforts to arouse the Canadian government to action. It was a determination that was reinforced by what Winston Churchill told him on the eve of his departure: “You must do all you can to help us prepare, Bishop.We haven’t got much time left. ”

  Later that year, partly as a result of my father’s constant warnings that neglect of the nation’s defences could be suicidal, the government reluctantly approved of pilot training via private flying clubs—“Sunday fliers.” He decided to encourage this trend by joining one of the part-tim
e flyers’ clubs—the Montreal Light Aeroplane Club.

  When this news reached an old London friend, Viscount Castleross, the influential London newspaper columnist, the latter had this to say about my father’s resumption of flying:

  “Why the devil have I got Billy Bishop on my mind?

  “Oh, I remember.

  “He is taking out a pilot’s licence.

  “The old idiot.

  “He never could fly, although he gets angry if you say so.

  “By that I mean he could never land.”

  It didn’t take my father long to live up to that dubious reputation. One afternoon he landed a Fleet two-seater on its nose at Cartierville airfield. He climbed out, walked over to the pilot’s hut and grinned.

  “Haven’t lost my touch,” he said proudly to a group of flabbergasted students.

  Spencer Horn, his comrade in 60 Squadron in the RFC, had described him as “a fantastic shot but a terrible pilot.” This statement I can verify. Flying with him, you noticed his tendency to be ham-handed on the controls, his manoeuvres were jerky, his turns rough and hurried. He did not guide an aircraft, he pushed and pulled it.

  In those days there were few restrictions on pilots. They did not have to file a flight plan, and there were apparently no laws against erratic flying.

  One afternoon when he knew some friends were playing golf at nearby Laval, north of Montreal Island, my father decided to put on a special show for them. He invited me to go along—without, of course, telling me his plans. We flew over the golf course until he spotted a foursome, dived at them, swept across the green at a height of no more than ten feet, then pulled up. The golfers scattered in all directions.

  That was only the warm-up. Next we flew west to Vaudreuil on the Ottawa River where another friend, Colonel Gustave Rainville, had a summer place. When we reached it my father pointed down at a raft moored a hundred feet from the shore. On it were a number of Rainville’s guests sunning themselves. As we got close the swimmers plunged into the water and swam for shore. This gave my father an opportunity to execute a manoeuvre even more daring than the one he had originally intended. He bounced the wheels off the raft.

  Strangely, I had utter confidence in him throughout. I was beginning to think of him as many others did—invincible.

  TWENTY-TWO

  GETTING READY

  THOUGH THE WAR CLOUDS over Europe had considerably darkened by the mid-thirties, they were still almost totally ignored. But more people were more active in preparing for war—limited though that activity was—than was generally known at the time. In Canada my father was one of them. Circumstances brought this about.

  Shortly after the Liberal government came to power in Canada under William Lyon Mackenzie King in 1935 my father was created an Air Vice-Marshal of the RCAF. He became close friends with the new Minister of National Defence, a tall, burly Scot, Ian Mackenzie. They were a strangely assorted pair. My father was short, no more than five feet seven inches, and by now quite portly. Mackenzie, lean and standing well over six feet tall, towered over him. They differed more seriously in another respect. Mackenzie firmly believed that the air force should be assigned primarily to the protection of Canada’s shores. My father insisted that it should be an offensive weapon, on the ground that defence could best start at the battle line. Both agreed, however, that the air force should be expanded as rapidly as possible.

  This was the reason, or at any rate one of the reasons, for the appointment of my father as Honorary Air Vice-Marshal, with full powers to assist the government in the appropriation of more funds for the air force by wooing public support. As an honorary, non-serving officer he was not restricted by military dictates, and the prestige of his high rank and his own fame gave authority to his propaganda activities.

  Not all the newspapers agreed with the theme he kept repeating in speeches across the country . . .“We cannot close our eyes to the possibility of war, in which event our most valuable contribution would be a trained air force. I plead with the government to devote more adequate funds to the expansion of the Royal Canadian Air Force. . . .”For more than a year speeches like that made him a controversial figure. But in March, 1936, the need for preparation was clearly spelled out when Hitler reoccupied the Rhineland in violation of the peace treaty. In England Churchill warned: “All this means that the Nazi regime has gained a new prestige in Germany and in all the neighbouring countries. But more than that, Germany is now fortifying the Rhine Zone.”

  At this time not by any means all of my father’s time was taken up with air force matters. They were, after all, extracurricular (and without pay) and the business of making a living as an oil company executive came first. His employers recognized, though, that his role as a World War I hero and crusader for air power increased his value to the company, and they gave him all the time off his secondary role required.

  A typical entry in his diary in those mid-thirties days read:

  Very tired tonight. Rode on Mount Royal this morning then walked to the office because it was clear. At noon sat for Jongers for an hour. Portrait coming along well. Lunch at the Ritz. Ross Malcom tells me Sladen leads the market. I bought another four hundred shares. Phoned Ian Mackenzie about my Ottawa speech. Sent him a copy. This afternoon played golf with Paul Rodier at Laval. It rained and I played atrociously. Later at the club saw a Mr. O’Brien who wants to write some sort of book about me for American school-children. Margaret and I had cocktails at the Bells then dined at home. I spent two hours at the piano practising. Phoned Ian again about changes in my speech. At 11 p.m. George and Fiorenza Drew came in and stayed until 3 a.m. It was hilarious.

  This typical entry indicated that he was still busily engaged in proving himself. For example, he learned to play the piano in three months and played surprisingly well. But he practised as much as four hours a day. He did the same thing with table tennis, in which at that time he became keenly interested. For many weeks we lived with the Ping-Pong table in the living room so that he could practise at any time the mood came upon him.

  This relentlessness concealed and to a great extent overcame his inner frustrations and anxieties. This is the impression he made on Quentin Reynolds who wrote:

  It is very disappointing to meet ex-champions twenty years after. They are fat and dull and they are living in the past—looking at the present through the glamour of the past. Bishop was different. Bishop lives in the present and the past to him is merely a record of time—a record that he is too busy to look back upon.

  He is an intelligent, cultured gentleman, a bon vivant, and extraordinary host and one of the keenest businessmen in Canada. But to me he’s the toughest man in the world—the only living person to whom one can point and say “There is a man without fear.”

  On one point Reynolds was entirely right—my father was an extraordinary host. He entertained lavishly, and everything was done correctly—up to a point. Beyond that point his ingenuity—and often his eccentricity—took over. At one party he had the entire meal served backwards—coffee first, then dessert, entree and then soup, followed by cocktails. Leffo entered into the spirit of things by entering the room backwards to serve the meal. On one St. Patrick’s Day he held a party patterned on an old “rag” at the mess in France. He even poured champagne into the piano and danced on it. For another party he rounded up all the organ grinders in Montreal, so that guests were greeted in the apartment foyer by a dozen grubby organ grinders (some complete with monkey) all churning out different tunes.

  But on another point Quentin Reynolds was dead wrong. Bishop was far from being the most fearless of men. For one thing, he was terrified of the very element of flight—altitude. Once he pointed to a window a few floors above the street and told me with a shudder: “If I leaned out of that window, I’d faint.”

  He never got over the memory of a pathological fear of ground fire. And while he seemed to seek out enemy planes with an eagerness far beyond the call of duty, he once confided to me that every
time he sighted an enemy plane his heart pounded and his throat went dry.

  Even the confident, almost aggressive air he assumed as a businessman sometimes masked black moods of depression. Once he terrified my mother by telling her, “There are so many things buzzing around in my mind I sometimes wish I could stop them by blowing them out with a bullet.” But it is doubtful that he ever seriously considered suicide. He was too interested in the “things buzzing around” in his head.

  The thirties were drawing to a close, and so was peace in Europe. Hitlerism cast its shadow over Czechoslovakia, and in England Prime Minister Chamberlain was timorously advancing the view that war could be averted through compromise. Churchill continued to thunder warnings of danger. His was the only strong voice that cried out and for the most part it was tragically ignored. In Canada my father’s voice became an echo of Churchill’s, and for the most part it too was ignored.

  But progress was made. Defence Minister Ian Mackenzie persuaded the Canadian government to increase its expenditure for building the air force. On August 10, 1938, he appointed my father Honorary Air Marshal, the highest rank in the country at the time. He also became head of the Air Advisory Committee, made up of a group of Canadian war pilots including his brother-in-law Hank Burden.

  Ian Mackenzie and my father still pretended that they were at odds on the role of air power. “I’m making an Imperialist out of Ian,”my father boasted. And the Defence Minister retorted, “I am making an isolationist out of Bishop.”

  At the end of September came the brief false respite of Munich. What happened next is history, but the Bishop family had a private view of it from the exiled President Edouard of Czechoslo vakia himself, when the latter was a guest at our house.

  “If I had been allowed to fight I could have beaten Hitler. Hitler was bluffing and wasn’t prepared for war!” declared.