The Kapaun Virtue

When Venerable Emil Kapaun’s earthly remains were returned home to his native Kansas in 2021, Sgt. 1st Class Herbert Miller, at attention from his wheelchair, extolled him: “You don’t have ’em like that anymore.”

Perhaps. But the raw material is there. Kapauns don’t spring fully formed out of the earth; they’re cultivated by hard work and difficult circumstances. Emil Kapaun grew up in a bare-bones Kansas household in the 1930s, doing heavy physical labor to help keep the farm going. That’s good training for a sacrificial life.

Most of us live more leisurely now, but there are still good training exercises to strip away our conveniences and bring us face-to-face with our ability to withstand discomfort without forgetting our Christian ethic. I would say that’s the Kapaun virtue: tending to others when your own body is crying out in pain.

Every year in June, a motley band of pilgrims, under the patronage of Venerable Emil Kapaun, start out from Wichita, Kansas—where Fr. Kapaun’s remains now lie in the cathedral—and walk 60 miles to St. John Nepomucene parish in Pilsen, where Father was baptized, preached his first Mass, and served as pastor.

Sixty miles of gravel roads, iffy summer weather, and camping out at night is a fairly strenuous proposition for most people. Even the youth, whose natural vitality made it more of a lark than for us oldsters, were subject to blisters, heat rash, and the vagaries of taking nature’s call behind whatever foliage could be found by the side of the road.

The Kapaun pilgrimage qualifies for the “Do Hard Things” strategy. Difficult endeavors—those that are physically strenuous as well as things we just don’t much enjoy, like sleeping in a field—build up spiritual muscle. It’s like a fast, denying the appetites in order to reach a higher spiritual good. I recently finished the 2026 pilgrimage, and I realized how difficult the Kapaun virtue is for me, which is useful information if I sincerely want to pursue holiness.

After his ordination in 1940, Fr. Kapaun served as a pastor and moonlighted at a nearby Army air base. He learned the particular needs of military men and was draw to that ministry. His bishop allowed him to enter the U.S. Chaplain Corps in 1944. He was assigned to India and Burma in the last year of World War II, where he learned firsthand the rigors of ministering in battle. He became well-known for bringing Christ to the front line, even under fire.

Released from service after the war ended, he was restless in civilian life and returned to active military duty in 1948. When North Korea invaded South Korea in 1950, Fr. Kapaun shipped out with the 1st Cavalry Division, one of the first American units to come to the relief of the South Koreans.

In some ways, it was a “baby Army,” since battle-hardened veterans had left service after WWII and new recruits were green as tree frogs. Fr. Kapaun, at age 34, was practically an elder.

Scott Hahn tells a story in his book A Father Who Keeps His Promises of a young schoolboy buried under rubble after an earthquake. He never doubted his rescue and told others buried with him not to worry. Up top, his father began digging, and after nearly two days, he reached his son. The boy said to the other survivors, “See? I told you my father would come.”

That’s the kind of confidence Fr. Kapaun inspired. The soldiers were young, far from home, not highly trained, and for many it was their first battle testing—all the ingredients for runaway terror in a young heart. Knowing that Fr. Kapaun would always reach them, come hell, high water, or flying shrapnel, gave them courage. Whether a soldier was Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, or none of the above, he knew Fr. Kapaun would come for him.

In any army, soldiers surrender their autonomy. They no longer make their own decisions about where to go, where they’re safest or most exposed. Under command, they have to hope their leaders are worthy. So it’s no wonder that military men are so unstintingly loyal to those they believe have their best interests at heart.

Fr. Kapaun wasn’t a line officer, but his men knew he existed for them; they were his whole mission. They knew he would not slink back to relative safety to work on Sunday’s homily. He’d be up front, driving into fire to bring the sacraments and retrieve the wounded. When his Jeep was bombed, he rode an old bicycle. Even in battle so close that the stem of his pipe was shot right out of his mouth, he continued on to the men. And they loved him for it.

The famous “Jeep Mass” photo of Fr. Kapaun offering the Sacrifice of the Mass on the hood of his Jeep was taken during one such forward operation. He was dauntless for Christ.

Kapaun’s unit had initially deployed in summer 1950. At first, it looked like it would be a mop-up, with the North Koreans apparently retreating back above the 38th parallel. As it turned out, they were a bit more entrenched, and it was a true war. Then, in July, Chairman Mao Zedong sent 250,000 Chinese Communist troops to shore up the North Korean line.

I still remember the M*A*S*H episode “Deluge,” in which the casualties from the massive Chinese incursion began flooding the 4077th. Fan wiki describes the episode thus: “News breaks that China has ruptured the U.N.’s front line, kicking off an entirely new war.”

Fr. Kapaun’s battalion moved up to Unsan in North Korea in late October to relieve the battered South Koreans. On the night of November 1, 1950, the Americans, outnumbered 50-to-1 with the arrival of Chinese troops, were completely surrounded. It was judged to be hopeless. Able-bodied soldiers were instructed to break out of the noose however they could. Since the wounded could not, Fr. Kapaun and a medic, Dr. Clarence Anderson, stayed behind with them, knowing full well they’d all be taken prisoner.

Once captured, they were marched to a prison camp in farthest-north Korea, near the Chinese border. This long way of sorrows was called the “death march” since enemy guards would shoot anyone who lagged behind.

One such prisoner was Sgt. 1st Class Miller, who couldn’t walk on his wounded leg. Just as a North Korean pulled out his weapon to dispatch Miller to his Maker, Fr. Kapaun stepped in and literally pushed aside the barrel of the gun. Fr. Kapaun then picked Miller up and carried him like he must have carried hay, corn, and calves back in his youth in Kansas. That action galvanized the others; those less wounded helped the immobile, though they were all close to the limit of endurance.

Sixty miles is a devilishly long way to carry a man. The temperatures in a North Korean winter can get down to 50 below zero, with frigid winds barreling down from Siberia. Many soldiers, including Fr. Kapaun, suffered frostbite and lost digits and limbs. Some froze to death.

In prison, the Americans received around two cups a day of millet, corn, or soy. The men starved, froze, contracted dysentery, and lost their will to live under these conditions. To break them down further, they were subjected to long hours of “re-education” in which Communist idealogues ranted about the evils of capitalism and the filth of Americans. Fr. Kapaun would calmly rebut these manic tirades, leaving the commander practically hopping in rage. It didn’t endear Kapaun to his captors, but it heartened the men to hear him answer back.

Fr. Kapaun was a “never say die” Kansas farm boy, so he foraged for extra food for the men early in the morning. He collected sticks to heat water and would call out, “Coffee, everybody!” encouraging the men with a little dose of ersatz normal each morning. He washed the men too weak to get to the latrine, boiled their clothes so disease wouldn’t spread, and held them in his arms like a khaki Pietà.

It would have been easier for the sickest among them to just give up, but the good Father would not allow it.

Finally, Kapaun himself was crippled by a blood clot in one leg, presumably from an injury sustained while trying to unearth a cistern for heating water. His leg swelled up, and his wasted system had nothing left to fight infection. The North Koreans, who’d been watching for a chance to rid themselves of the troublesome priest, snatched him from the dedicated men who were trying to nurse him back to health. Kapaun was taken to a separate building, called the “hospital” by the captors and the “death house” by the prisoners, where there were no medics or treatment—only desolation, a human dumping ground. Men did not return from the “hospital.”

Survivors testified that Kapaun died, away from his men, on May 23, 1951. His body was buried somewhere behind the abominable “hospital.” Those he left behind never forgot him; in fact, they never stopped talking about him. His valor was recognized by the Army, and, in 2021, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor—the highest U.S. military decoration—for valor in combat. Only nine Medals of Honor have ever been awarded to chaplains.

After the war, North Korea dug up many soldiers’ graves and shipped the mess of bones back to the United States. Since Fr. Kapaun was significantly older than the average soldier, pathologists were able to narrow down the skeletal possibilities. Against all odds, a match was made. Thus were Fr. Kapaun’s earthly remains returned with honors to Kansas, where Herbert Miller, whose life was saved from the enemy bullet, made his remark about Kapaun being unrepeatable.

Emil Kapaun was extraordinary, it’s true, judged worthy of veneration by the Church. Yet even in our screen-driven, fast-food comfort, Kapauns can be formed. I saw inklings on the pilgrimage, when exhausted pilgrims still reached out to others. A man who’d pushed a stroller over gravel all day came to my aid on blistered feet when the wind kept blowing my tent away. I saw people in line for medical treatment at night who’d never uttered a word of complaint during the long hours on the road. We were all away from our families, but I could count on one hand the number of times someone chose a screen over the humans walking next to them.

All small things, but the willingness of pilgrims to subject themselves to discomfort while continuing to watch out for others is the beginning of Kapaun’s virtue. We may never carry wounded men through the snow or stand up to enemy captors, but we are all fighting a battle. Sometimes it is as small as fighting against our own attachment to convenience.

Some day, you may have the opportunity to do something far outside your comfort zone; it’s important to consider it. Such challenges begin to fill a reservoir of self-knowledge and practice in virtue so as to prepare us for an opportunity to follow Christ into battle.

For more information on Fr. Kapaun, visit these resources:

“The Courage and Faith of Fr. Emil Kapaun,” 56 minutes. Regiment of the Cross.

“The Magazine and the Miracle,” 15 minutes. Knights of Columbus Supreme Council. This video contains original voice audio and photos of Fr. Kapaun.

“Kapaun Comes Home,” 13 minutes. Diocese of Wichita.

A Shepherd in Combat Boots, by William L. Maher

Father Kapaun Pilgrimage

Official Website of the Cause for Sainthood