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Community Forums › Com Central Forums › The Book Forum :: Archives › The Man Who Flew The Memphis Belle :: Archived
The Man Who Flew The Memphis Belle :: ArchivedHere you will find all about books for the reading on the stuff we fly or play. All discussions about new or old books that pertain to the interests of Com Central members.
Joined: Mar 29, 2010
Location: Corona, California
|Posted: Fri Dec 10, 2010 10:07 pm
Post subject: The Man Who Flew The Memphis Belle
A fine read about Robert Morgans life.
Starting with his early childhood through his time over Europe in "The Memphis Belle" and flying over Japan in "Dauntless Dotty" to his struggles after the war.
|Robert Morgan wrote:
| www.memphis-belle.com/...review.htm |
I still go over to Memphis and see her once in a while. She looks pretty good for an old girl. We’ve both been through a lot since we first met back in 1942, and I’m always amazed at how well she’s held up through it all. After more than half a century she’s still about the most gorgeous thing I ever saw. She’s had a little help in that department from some specialists in the field, but then you name me one great beauty that has not.
I look at her and the memories come flooding back. I can stand there at her side and all of a sudden an hour has passed and it has all streamed through me again at high speed, the images and the noises and the terror and the ecstasy and the grief and the triumph. And then all the decades since.
And maybe when I come out of that reverie I have to put my hand against her for a minute to steady it. That cool smooth exterior. And her? Not a tremor. Nothing ever seemed to bother her much. Nothing ever brought her down.
I come to visit her at least once a year from my home in Asheville, North Carolina. "Visit" isn’t quite strong enough a word. It’s a pilgrimage. I still enjoy being with her. Of course, things will never be the same between us as back then, but that doesn’t matter. Hell, we’d all be in a pretty pickle if they were. No, what matters is that she is not forgotten—not by me, and not by the country she helped save. That, and the fact that she has a good, secure place to spend the rest of her days, even if it is in a theme park. Damn, I whisper to her sometimes. Could either of us ever have predicted this? That you’d end up in a theme park on an island in the Mississippi River? With 150,000 people coming to admire you each year, there amidst all the gift shops and the restaurants and the children’s playground and the musicians blowing jazz in the summer?
Sometimes, maybe on a Saturday or a Sunday when the crowds are biggest, I stand off to one side and watch the people drift into the little domed museum on Mud Island, where she’s been housed since 1987. I watch them as they form a circle around her and take off their sunglasses and look up at her—perhaps aim a flash camera in her direction—and try to hear what they have to say. Or to read their thoughts—most of them have fallen silent.
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