Grandpa Gianotti (Jack Sr. as opposed to Jack Jr., my dad) had a crooked smile and a droopy eye that he was constantly dabbing dry with his handkerchief. It seemed normal to me, but that was all I knew him to look like. That was Grandpa. Those features were like a fingerprint that made him unique. He stood out in a crowd.

He told me the story of how his face came to be like that in an aviation mishap during World War I. At about 17 years old (he was born in 1891, so the date of this story would be ca. 1908 or later), he was too young to enlist in the US military in anticipation of the war that would soon engulf Europe. However, taking advantage of his dual citizenship (by virtue of his mother’s Canadian nationality), he skipped across the Minnesota border from Ely, where he lived, into Canada. Summarily lying about his age, he enlisted in the Canadian military. Loyalty to fight in the cause for his country and a thirst for adventure ran in the blood of most American young men. A thing like being too young would not stop him from seeing action!

We don’t know much about this time period and reconciling his story with exact dates proves difficult. But we do know of the defining experience that would alter Grandpa’s face forever. He was assigned (or volunteered) to join the aviation section, which at that time was a precarious commitment. This was well before the formation of the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) created in 1920. For context, remember that the first documented, verified airplane flight, by brothers Wilbur and Orville Wright, occurred only a short while earlier, on December 17, 1903. What a glorious time for a young adventurer to be among the generation of men tasting the first thrills of flying—apart from being in a war, of course.

The aircraft to which young Jack was assigned was an open cockpit biplane, the latest technology of this infantile flight unit. In those days, the army used planes primarily for reconnaissance, to see what was going on behind enemy lines. The primitive engines at the beginning of the war were barely able to power the planes with one or two people on board.

In time, as in all wars, technology advanced, engines improved, and flights took on bombing runs and the famed dogfights. However, more planes went down from mechanical failure than due to actual combat. The aviators all flew with bravery and abandon, thinking they were above the fatality averages.

Jack took his position as the observer/navigator/guy in the back seat. Well, on one particular mission (whether this was a practice run, a bombing sortie, or simply an observation flight, we don’t know), Jack and his pilot set off down the runway for their takeoff. As they gained speed, approaching the end of the takeoff zone, the plane gradually lifted off the tarmac to clear the hangar at the end of the runway and soar into the wild blue yonder. They would have made it, except that retractable landing gear was still future in those days, and the pilot misjudged his altitude. The plane did not clear the hangar! The wheels caught the front edge of the roof, the aircraft performed the unplanned maneuver called a front pancake-flip, and immediately slammed upside down onto the corrugated-metal hangar roof. The pilot was killed instantly (the story Grandpa told me doesn’t specify that detail, but that would be a safe surmise).

What about Jack? How could anyone survive that tragic mishap? That he survived to tell the story to me some 50-60 plus years later proves his durability. As it turns out, he had forgotten to fasten his seat belt! His position as observer had placed his seat aft of the wings so that the flipping motion of the plane catapulted him over the hangar into a tree on the other side. Whatever other injuries he incurred, the evidence of the mishap was the one that showed on his face. He ended up with facial paralysis on his left side. To the day he died, he could not blink the eye on that side, and when he smiled, only the right side of his mouth went up.

It was not grotesque, not at all. Jack was a man of good humor, and he laughed a lot. His was a deep, guttural laugh that began with the sound and volume of a ship’s bullhorn on a foggy bay, morphing lustily into a staccato of a honking goose. He would constantly reach into his pocket for the handkerchief to wipe the tears of laughter from his cheek! I can still hear that bellowing and see his smile every time I remember this. No facial deformation could quench his enjoyment of life.

I am reminded of the nail prints in the hands of Jesus, the wound that continued to show even after his resurrection (John 20:24–29). Just like Grandpa’s facial injury was testimony to the sacrifice made for his country, the nail prints in Jesus’ hands are a testimony to the Savior’s sacrifice for each of us.