My father never met me. He died in WWII in the cockpit of
his P-51. I wouldn't be here, except for a brief leave between flight school
and his assignment to Iwo Jima. He provided escort service to the B-29s that bombed Japan daily. The flight was so long and tiresome, two pilots were assigned to each P-51 and they flew on alternate days.
I don't have many pictures of him, but this one was posted
to a website honoring the 506th Fighter Group. My father is the furthest out on
the wing.
I'd like to wish him and all of his compatriots that helped keep
us safe and free, Happy Memorial Day ... and thank you.
