Robert J. Middleton, who died on Wednesday morning at 98 years old, grew up in a hard-working east end neighbourhood of Toronto, down by Coxwell Avenue, and Dundas Street.
An athletic youth, he was consumed and enthralled by the exploits of aviation pioneers, including Lindberg, Wop May, Amelia Earhart, and so many more. He would buy all of the aviation pulp magazines (especially Bill Barnes’ Air Trails), see all the films, read all the books.
His “most spectacular” memory of boyhood was of the giant airship R100, flying over the city on its visit to Canada in 1930. More than 90 years later, he could close his eyes and still see it, clear as day.
Bob attended Danforth Technical School, even though he was easily bright enough for an academic high school, and was especially good at technology. His best friend’s younger sister, Pat, caught his eye, and they began dating.
War broke out. There was no question the young Canadian would fight, and the only place that could possibly be when the time came was in the air. That time arrived on June 17, 1942.
The RCAF sent him off to No. 1 Manning Depot, on Toronto’s Canadian National Exhibition grounds, where he learned to ground pound, made friends, and kept away from the Disciplinary Corporal. Initial Training was at No, 5 ITS, in Belleville, Ontario – a happy time as he was chosen for pilot.
So, it was off to RCAF Pendleton, near Ottawa, for Elementary on the Tiger Moth. Bob was a very good pilot (despite an incident where he pulled out of a long uncontrolled dive so sharply, a pin on the oleo strut went away and a wheel disappeared.
Either despite this, or perhaps because of it, the air force selected him for fighter pilot training, on the North American Harvard, at RCAF Uplands (in the nation’s capital) In the air, Bob was a natural, but he could not land the thing, no matter how hard he tried.
Something was keeping him from properly judging the distance to the ground as he came in. Many years later, it was discovered he was five per cent cross eyed on the left side.
The young airman washed out. And he was crushed. For the rest of his life, however, Bob was convinced that moment saved his life. Did not believe he would have survived as a fighter pilot in combat.
Navigation called. And he would be superb at it.
Move ahead to the first of September, 1944, and the crew of pilot Don Rombough, with Bob handling the flying directions, arrived at RCAF Station Croft, and 431 (Iroquois) Squadron, No. 6 Group. It was a time when the unit was going through a tough time, with many losses.
Not this crew.
Bob would fly 10 operations on the Halifax, and then after conversion another 23 on the Lancaster. That was 33 times they made it back for breakfast.
The worst thing that happened was a small piece of flak intruded on his navigator’s enclosure. Bob wasn’t there, because as a “Nosy Navigator” he was in the astrodome watching the show over the target.
Years later his son, Dan, would ask him what luck was. “Luck,” said Bob, “is 33 eggs.”
Bob came home, married Pat, built his own house on land from the government (you could choose to go to school, or use the money for a plot), and settled into a career with Bell Canada. They had sons Dan, and Dave, a slew of grandchildren and even lived to see his great grandchildren.
And he always gave time for the Aircrew Association, endless school classes, Remembrance Day speaking engagements, the occassional flight in VeRA (one of two flying Lancasters in the world), and just sitting and talking – one of his favourite things.
With his wife gone, Bob spent his last few years still at the house, still looking after himself, sharp as a tack. He worked hard with Dan on his memoirs, published just this summer.
Flying Officer Robert J. Middleton. Another voice that had been there and lived it, stilled.
Per Ardua ad Astra, Bob, and I know when you arrived at the great mess in the sky, you and Pat met the crew at the bar and began sharing your yarns with them.
Luck is 33 Eggs, by Robert Middleton, and Dan Middleton, is available here.
