During the winter, only Americans come to the B-17 Museum, the summer, its Europeans and folks from around the world. It was on a cold winter day that a small crowd of Virginians wandered in, no different than any other crowd came in - I heard a woman sobbing from the back of the plane, under the tail.
"Oh my God, " I heard her crying, " its my father." I walked...hobbled really down there, and found an older woman slumped over a wheel chair, sobbing into a large hankerchief, pointing to a crew picture hanging on the wall.
" Its him, it's my dad, " she cried, and wimpered as her family bent over hugging and running their fingers and hands over her shoulders.
Her father was a waist gunner on Hot-to-Trot, lost over Germany on its X mission, another casualty on another flight, doing his duty, bombing yet another target, trying to get the damned war over with. It really didn't matter whether it was at the front part of the war or near the end, the plane and most of the 10 crew didn't make it. They were lost, dead was dead, no hope, the explosion happened at about 8,000 feet on the way down, it was quick, very few chutes, no bodies were recovered.
We copied the crew photo and gave it to her. She wanted to know a zillion things: why the art on the nose, who thought it up, who were the other guys, still alive, where were they? how many other casualties ( WAY too many), was it worth it?
The family that came with her? Sons, daughters, grandchildren and the family tree that sprung from their union that populated the small town from whence they came. He issued a doctor, farmer, college graduates, electrical workers, a couple of nurses, a family tree that gave his town a lot.
I imagine if he could see all this, he would be proud.
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