I had friend—a mentor, really. He flew Hawker Hurricanes in WWII, and had great war stories. Like the time he was jumped and shot down by three Messerschmitts in the North African desert. He described the German machine gun rounds hitting his wings looking “like a sewing-machine stitching.” Looking over his shoulder, he saw the “white puffs of the cannon smoke,” because they switch to cannons when close-in; dead-sticking the Hurricane into the sand and hiding with Bedouins for three days, dressing like them. Or crashing and cartwheeling on the Anzio beachhead because one main landing gear wouldn’t extend.
These stories enthralled me—they still do—and are one reason I signed up for the U.S. Air Force. I didn’t even know where Anzio was. I still don’t.
