My dad (Don Parker, a Merchant Mariner) and his older brother (S/Sgt. Marion Parker), were raised on a ranch in northern California. They were farm kids, just concerned with going to school, plowing the fields and growing up. In 1942, my Uncle Marion was just 20 years old when he answered the call of duty and enlisted. He arrived at Grafton Underwood, a trained and qualified radio operator/gunner, on April 10, 1944. On the morning of April 27, he left England in B-17 # 42-97136 on his very first combat mission. He didn't come back.

It's something we didn't talk about when I was young. We didn't want to remind my father or my grandmother of their grievous loss. They had suffered enough. It was better to remain silent.

In 1985, Dad and his wife visited Marion's grave at St. Laurent in Normandy, France. I tried to imagine how Dad must have felt, seeing that white cross that day. I tried to imagine it, but I couldn't. Next spring, he will take my sister and I to France to pay our own respects to Uncle Marion, to the whole crew (there were no survivors), and to all the others who gave their lives for our freedom. When I found out we were going, it brought this long-repressed subject to mind. I couldn't stop thinking and wondering about it.

In preparation for this trip to Europe, I did a basic search on the Internet. I soon discovered that my uncle had been a member of the 384th BG, 544th Squadron, and found the date that he perished. Then, by what could not have been mere chance, I found Dewayne "Ben" Bennett's web page about his April 13, 1944 Schweinfurt mission. Ben's "Squawkin' Chicken" was the only plane in his squadron to return that day. Impressed, I sent Ben a message, telling him about my uncle. I never expected an answer. Little did I know.

A few days later, I fired up the computer — and there it was. An e-mail from the "Squawkin' Chicken." I couldn't believe my eyes! Not only was Ben going to answer me, he was soon to become a special friend. Almost an angel.

I sat back in my chair, stunned to read that Ben had researched my uncle's mission. I have read that e-mail so many times that I can recite it from memory. The message contained these hard hitting words ... "the target that day was Sottevast, France. ...only one plane went down...chances are, your uncle was on it...I'll get back to you." I said out loud "You are kidding me." Fifty-six years later, somebody knows what happened?

True to his word, Ben did get back to me with names of the crew, the airplane serial number, and a few details about the mission. Over the next several weeks, Ben taught me about such things as "MACRs"; feathering an engine; milk runs; flying in echelon; I learned about Memories, and a wonderful man named Ken Decker. Ken was even kind enough to put my uncle's story in his last newsletter, asking if anyone saw the plane go down or could help me find out more details. He kept in touch with me, encouraging me and putting his resources to work for me. And he didn't even know me.

Now I was getting deep into this research and thought it was time to talk to Dad. I got up my courage one night and called him. I told him that Ben had helped me start finding out some details about his brother's mission. Did he want to know about it, or was this something he'd rather let sleep? His reply: YES, I want to know! He listened intently as I told him that Marion's first and last mission was bombing a V-2 installation in Sottevast, France. It was just after bombs away when flak hit the left wing and caused a fire in the cockpit. The plane peeled out of formation and exploded. My father was grateful for Ben's help, and called to thank him. Thus began their friendship, bolstered by more telephone calls and plans for a visit.

Two weeks ago, my family members met at the Pima Air & Space Museum and the 390th Memorial Museum in Tucson where Ben works. How wonderful it was when we met him in person for breakfast that day! He was personable, fascinating, and sometimes downright funny. In the crowded coffee shop, my question about formation flying prompted a story from Ben that caused surrounding tables to stop their own conversations to listen in. He was patient in answering our questions, and it was great to see him and Dad develop their special friendship. I'm enclosing a picture of the two of them. You can see that they almost belong together.

During our stay in Tucson, we visited the museum's B-17 and got a special tour inside the plane. Ben took my picture sitting at my uncle's station, the radio operator's seat. My sister, being a private pilot herself, studied the cockpit controls and was impressed with the mechanical enormity of this big flying machine.

We were also privileged to meet Gerald Rose, the pilot of the B-17 "Damn Yankee". What a gentleman — modest, humble and fascinating in his own right. I felt very special when he presented me with an autographed photo of him flying the “Damn Yankee”. Real heros. You just don't meet them every day.

We felt like visiting royalty as Ben and his associates showed us some of the other bombers housed there in Tucson. The last half-hour of the day found us back in the 390th Museum, saying farewell to the B-17 that dominates the room. Dad stopped in front of a large wall map of Europe that showed the various bomber bases in England and significant locations across the English Channel. There on the map was Sottevast, France. It was the first time Dad had seen that word on any map. He was finally able to visualize what happened to his brother. It was a bittersweet moment, taking him back in time and holding him there, then letting him go to live in the present.

As we left the building, he took one last, lingering look at the map, and tears came. Once outside the door, he turned to Ben and said "This has been the best 3 days of my life." My sister and I were arm-in-arm with Dad as we walked away. It was hard to go, but somehow that old sadness began to lift away, and we knew we had a very special new friend in Tucson.

The Ben Bennetts and Ken Deckers of the world are important. They are the ones who keep the real history books. When someone asks "What did my great grandfather do when he was stationed at a bomber base in 1943?", these folks and others like them will be able to answer questions factually. We will not be left at the mercy of history books that skim the subject and change facts to suit the current political climate. Nor will these great deeds fade away and out of memory. "Thank you" is such a meager little expression to use — but Ken, THANK YOU for what you're doing for us all. And Ben, you're an Angel.

Don Parker, Gerald Rose, Carol Schafer, Tracy Parker, Ben Bennett