A sign from above

It all began in England. I remember a clear blue early autumn day in 1940 in Edgeware, a suburb of London about 10 miles northwest of the heart of the city. The Battle of Britain was raging in the skies, but it had little effect on a boy of 10. War seemed far away. Close at hand was the adventure of finding pieces of shrapnel from the flak guns to show off at school or memorizing the silhouettes of friendly and enemy aircraft.

I knew them all, friend and foe and spent time drawing pictures of glorious flaming dogfights rather than attending to lessons. Toys were hard to come by, so I would build balsa wood models of my favorite aircraft and share them with friends.

But this afternoon was to be special. I had been out riding bicycles with my Uncle Bob, who was more like an older brother to me. (Bob's luck was good. He ultimately survived being torpedoed twice in the North Sea as the war progressed.) As we looked up, we spotted a flight of Hawker Hurricanes heading home. One was trailing a ribbon of ominous smoke. We got off our bikes and watched.

The wounded Hurricane soon fell behind the formation, banked, and began losing altitude. As we watched, the pilot opened the canopy, jumped from the aircraft, and opened his parachute. The dying airplane continued on its course straight at us.

In an instant, we went from being observers to participants. After a...