I considered Chris B. my best friend. Middle School was a rough time for this cowboy. I’d been a hanger-on in a bad group of older boys for several years. Chris’s friendship provided an anchor to keep my ship from going over the falls and catalyst to achieve escape velocity. The relationship I had with my father was strained at best, for many reasons, not the least of which was my behavior and past choice of friends. Chris’s family took me in, not physically, but provided a guide for what a solid family life could be. They had a summer cottage out on Cape Cod, and I spent many a weekend out there with the B’s. Chris’s dad, George Sr., was the strong, silent type. An engineer by trade, he loved his boat, and we spent much time working on the old girl at the West Dennis Yacht Club. He was a good man who, like many, passed too early. Three days prior to the 80th anniversary of the D-Day landing at Normandy, I learned something else about my friend’s old man. He was a war hero. Chris recently shared a digitized copy of his pop’s World War II War Diary. It’s a fascinating, first-person account of his years as a crewman on a B-24 Liberator bomber, where he flew 50 combat missions in the most harrowing conditions imaginable.
Part Twelve O’clock High, part Forrest Gump, click here to give it a read:
