David
Roberts has been very faithful plugging the books of Delta Authors. He has religiously put new published works
before the group and promoted their work.
Well, below
is the PCN list of Delta Authors and there are many many books on this list
that would make a great birthday or Christmas gift. Please check out this PCN list that mostly
originates with David’s lists with an addition or two that sent in their info
directly to the PCN.
DELTA
AUTHORS:
https://pcn.homestead.com/Authors.html
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Death of a
Pilot: A World War II Christmas Story
As a gift to The Daily
Independent readers, the Jesse Stuart Foundation is pleased to
share a story from “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” a collection of true stories from
the Library of Congress that celebrates the spirit of Christmas during World
War II. This story is entitled “Death of a Pilot.”
We dreaded Christmas that year. It
was 1944, and it seemed that the war would never be over for our family.
Born in the Midwest, my brother
Bob rode horseback to school but wanted to fly an airplane from the first day
he saw one. By the time he was twenty-one we were living in Seattle. When World
War II broke out, Bob headed for the nearest recruitment office. Slightly
built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.
Undaunted, he persuaded Mother to
cook every fattening food she could think of. He ate before meals, between
meals, and after meals. Finally, he passed the weigh-in with eight ounces to
spare.
When he was named Hot Pilot of
primary training school and later involuntarily joined the “Caterpillar Club”
(engine failure causing the bailout) at St. Mary’s California, we shook our
heads and worried. Mother prayed. Bob was born fearless, and she knew it.
Before graduating, he applied for transfer to Marine Air Corps at Pensacola,
Florida. He trained on torpedo bombers that were being sent into combat
overseas.
Bob died under enemy fire over New
Guinea in the plane he wanted so desperately to fly.
Mother’s faith sustained her, but
father aged before our eyes. He would listen politely when the minister came to
call, but we knew Daddy was bitter. He dragged himself to work every day but
lost interest in everything, including his beloved Masonic club. He wanted a
Masonic ring. At Mother’s insistence, he’d started saving for the ring,
but that ceased, too.
I dreaded the approach of
Christmas. My late brother had loved Christmas. His surprises were legendary: a
doll house made at school, a puppy hidden in a mysterious place for our little
brother, an expensive dress for Mother bought with the very first money he ever
earned. Everything had been a surprise.
What would Christmas be without
Bob? Not much. Family was coming, so we went through the motions as much for
his memory as anything, but our hearts weren’t in it.
On December 23, an official
looking package arrived. My father watched stone-faced as Mother unpacked Bob’s
dress blues. Silence hung heavy. As she refolded the uniform to put it away, a
mother’s practicality resurfaced, and she went through the pockets almost by
rote.
In a small inside pocket was a
folded $50 bill with a tiny note in Bob’s familiar handwriting: “For Dad’s
Masonic ring.”
If I live to be one hundred, I
will never forget the look on my father’s face. Some kind of transformation
took place – a touch of wonder, a hint of joy, a quiet serenity that was
glorious to behold. Oh, the healing power of love! He stood transfixed,
staring at the note and the trimly folded bill in his hand for what seemed an
eternity, then walked to Bob’s picture hanging prominently on the wall and
solemnly saluted. “Merry Christmas, son,” he murmured, and turned to welcome
Christmas.
By James M. Gifford
JSF CEO &
Senior Editor
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