Every year on the 27th of September a group made up of German residents who lived through those brutal days, some tourists from America who come to honor their loved ones, German honor guards and bugle corps who salute the dead and produce the eerie sound of trumpets playing taps that echo through the forest, and various local officials of local towns throughout the area there to acknowledge that violent day that affected so many lives. And my memory relives the entire scene each year.

The day is not until tomorrow, but the memories that it stirs up have already spent three-quarters of a century within our hearts. And since we are in the throes of another battle right now, it even takes on more relevance in our lives. I mourn the death of a small group of heroes who were inside a B-24 named KING KONG on September 27, 1944

On September 27, 1944, my crew of nine guys crawled out of bed about 3 in the morning and headed for the flight line…