The Spring of 1943 I was in the Air Force stationed at Craig Field in Alabama. We were required to be on the flight line each morning at six a.m. Colonel Gould said that we would be practicing strafing today, so keep your mind on what you are doing. Just find a farm’s barn for our target and dive down like you were knocking it out. I was crew chief on Number 40. About eleven a.m. a call came in that Number 40 had just made a belly landing on the banks of the Alabama River. I was told to select a buddy and go by the AMO Depot and check out two 45’s. We strapped on the guns looking like cowboys and in about fifteen minutes a squad car picked us up for the fifty mile trip. When we arrived to check the condition of the pilot and co-pilot they were OK, but the farmers corn field was a mess. They sure picked the right spot to soften the landing. The two pilots got in the squad car and headed back to the base leaving us there to guard the plane. When it began to get a little bit dark I walked over to some trees. I watched squirrels jumping from limb to limb. As it got a little bit darker I could see a light flickering through the trees. I took about twenty steps to take a better look. It was an old house with no shades, no screens, and I saw an oil lamp burning. I could hear several people humming Amazing Grace. Moving closer I heard an old black gentleman praying. He was praying, “Lord I wanted to keep my grandson, but I know that you must need him more than I do”. I went back to the plane and we sat down on the wing and I told my buddy what I saw. We bowed our heads for a few minutes, you know you don’t have to be a baby to cry. In that old house I can still see those old ladies with those funeral fans moving, moving back and forth. After almost 75 years I’m not a baby, but I still cry.