My dad used to take me to the airport every weekend to watch touch and goes. While we stood at the wrong side of the fence, he’d regale me with stories of his days flying B17’s out of Britain. One mission, he’d gotten jumped by ME 109’s who proceeded to shoot out 3 of his 4 engines. One motor allowed him to limp back across the Channel, and he bellied the Fort in to a farm field. His trusty flight engineer Fuzzy pulled him out just before the ship blew up. It was why he had a Purple Heart and a “silver” kneecap.
Terrific story. Then one summer Fuzzy showed up to spend some time with us at the beach. I took him aside to get his end of the story. You know, B17, ME109’s, three engines out, the crash, the explosion.
“Crash?” said Fuzzy. “Nah. We got drunk and stole a jeep. Your father drove it into a stone wall.”
My father had never been a pilot at all. He did work on code machines for the OSS, though.
Many years later, I invited my less-than-truthful father to attend my wedding. He suggested we ought to meet up somewhere first. I agreed. As a pilot now (a real one), I said, “Sure. Let’s meet at the airport.”
The same one he’d taken me to as a little kid to watch, from the wrong side of the fence, airplanes fly the pattern.
Overhead, I could look down and see a car parked by that fence. He was standing in his usual spot. I landed, taxied up and shut down.
As I walked over to see him (it had been years, mind you) I saw he was crying.
Then, finally, I opened the metal gate and brought him through that damned fence at last.