I had assumed that I would serve as an aircraft mechanic because of my previous experience in this field. Instead, I began training as a pilot, receiving the standard salary of $50 per month. After primary, basic, and advanced training at different bases in California, New Mexico, and Arizona, I was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant. on March 10, 1943.

Flying came naturally to me. I loved the feeling of breaking loose from the bonds of earth.  I was first in my class throughout my flight training. Before the war was over, I had flown over 2,000 hours in training and combat flight. I had been in between 15 and 18 air battles, and had earned 5 battle stars.

My overseas experiences began when I was assigned as a 1^st Lieutenant to the 55^th Fighter Group, part of the 8^th Air Force. Our base was near Rayden, in East Anglia, England. I flew a P-38. Our job was to escort bombers on missions over occupied Europe and Germany.                                                                                      

Once, I flew a reconnaissance mission over France, just because I wanted to. On another flight, I was forced to make an emergency landing inside Russia. After some lengthy questioning by Russian authorities, I was permitted to fly back to my base in England.

During World War Two, pilots named their planes – mostly names of wives, mothers, or girlfriends. A comrade who had been killed in action had named his plane "Vivacious Vera" in honor of his wife. When I was assigned to his plane, I never considered changing the name.

Unlike many people, I consider "13" a lucky number, and here’s why: On a Friday the 13^th, while flying the "Vivacious Vera," over Kiel, Germany, one of her two engines was knocked out. Because I didn’t want to be a POW, I decided to try to get back to England on one engine.

As I was crossing the English channel, the second engine began to fail. It looked as if I would have to ditch the plane. Far below, I could see a Royal Navy battleship, and I hoped that I would be seen and picked up from the water. But just then I spotted the coastline of England in the distance, and decided to keep going.

The second engine quit at precisely 1300 hours, my lucky number again. I began to lose altitude, and the plane became more and more difficult to control as I attempted to land. "Vivacious Vera" crashed into the corner of a house, and came to a grinding stop near shops in a small town named Ludham. Luckily, no one in the town was injured by the crash. (Incidentally, Ludham is 13 miles equidistant from 3 other towns nearby.)

My left leg was pinned inside the cockpit, my skull fractured, several ribs broken, and I suffered painful burns. A villager named Russell Brooks rushed to get me out of the wreckage. One man threw a pot of tea on the flames to no avail. An elderly lady who was a Home Guard nurse tended to my burns and other injuries.

My wife and I have returned to Ludham more than once to thank again the people there who saved my life. Each time, the welcome and memories are heartwarming. They all remember the "Yank" who crashed into their lives. Russell Brooks became a lifelong friend.

I wish that everyone who reads this account will enjoy the snapshots of some of my comrades and the framed photo of my P-38. I recommend that they read Final Flights, a book written by Ian MacLachlan. It relates stories of air combat heroism.

When Holly Kier asked me to tell the best part of my World War Two experiences, I knew exactly what to say. My happiest moment was seeing my wife and small son waiting for me on the platform at Kansas City’s Union Station when I came home after 23 months of overseas military duty. Getting back to my family and country made it easy to know that the USA is the best place on earth.

I do not consider myself a hero--most of them are dead. I’m just a patriotic American, proud to have served my country.