I apologize for the delay in this story. Sometimes after an emotional event it is best to separate yourself from it a bit, so that you have time to think about it, and hopefully, to let the emotion subside so that events can become clearer in one's mind before attempting to construct them into words. For me, the emotion comes from the remembrance of my father. How this day effected him for the rest of his life. How it took the lives of five of his crew, and how he dangled, helpless, on the end of a thread, attached at the other end to Death's bony finger. He was lucky that day, though I don't think he was ever really able to feel that way about it.

Since I began to attend this ceremony last year, I am somewhat ashamed that I had unaccountably ignored it all these years. I have been fortunate in that I have not been too late to meet and hear the stories of some who were eye witness to the events of that day. I have learned how it affected them in its way, and burned indelible images in their minds, perhaps now somewhat faded in time, but forever imprinted on their hearts and souls. Most were young lads and lasses at the time, middle school or high school, now well into their 70's and 80's. I cannot imagine the horror they felt as they watched soldiers, Americans, tumble into the sky from a burning plane.

Before the day ended most people in town it seems had either run, walked or hitched a ride to the crash site. Some of those at the ceremony told me of coming to the site and seeing the flames, helping with fighting the fire. They ran into unknown peril to help, indeed an act of unsung bravery in itself. For all they knew the plane was carrying a deadly payload, it was, after all, a bomber, though I'm sure that was unclear at the time. Most poignant for me of their tales are those that tell of a single officer walking up the hill towards the crash site. He carried the parachute that saved his life, afraid to cut it loose for fear the Army would make him pay for it. He was shaken and did not speak. When he approached the wreckage he had to be restrained from rushing into the flames in a futile attempt to save his companions. He was my father.

As I look out at the audience before me, I wonder why the hands of fate have brought me to this time and place. I have the mixed feeling of shame that I had ignored this event for my entire adult life, and pride in that my father was one of the heroes on that day. I look at the audience and begin to realize that many have been to this memorial service every year since the crash occurred and it was first thought to honor these men. As I told the story, what little I know from prying the memories my father had buried deep inside, I thought of Walt Webb. Walt had researched the crash and found the names of the two survivors of that day, my father, and airman Kelley. Kelley is believed to be dead now, not really sure. Some of his nephews had attended at least one memorial service at the site. Walt somehow found me and encouraged me to attend.

I thought of how I was thankful to Walt as I spoke before the gathering. I looked out and saw true Americans, people who knew it was right and just to honor these men with this ceremony each year. I looked at the young men of the Civil Air Patrol. I thought about them, how they had no real connection to the event, but were willing to attend, in uniform, and perform the ceremony in honor of the fallen. I had to ask myself, where are the young men like these in this day and age? Many are dead, or serving still as these boys dutifully perform the ceremony.

The boys form their line and march forward to the memorial marker. Each carries a flight cap to be laid on the cold stone of the marker. They form facing the marker and stand at attention as each marches forward and lays a cap, then salutes before returning to their place in formation. Five caps are laid to represent each airman who gave his life that day. They turn and retreat, then receive a flag from their commanding officer. Again they turn, then again approach the monument. Here they take up the four corners as the fifth stands guard with rifle. The flag is unfurled and held above the marker adorned with caps. Taps begin to play, then a moment of silence and prayer, and then the rifle salute from a member of each branch of the Armed Forces. The flag is folded, then the young men march away.

I wipe the tears I cannot control as I am called to the podium. I try to remember all that my father told me about that day and relay it to the audience. I won't retell the story now, but it can be read here:

http://ghostflowers.smugmug.com/Other/B-24-Crash-Site-Ceremony/17103510_jJmdVx#!i=1296015330&k=c5sK3ZQ

As I gaze at the audience it becomes apparent that it may soon be handed down to me to keep the flames of this day burning in remembrance. Like my father and all the men of his crew, those who remember this day will not always be here to remind others of the brave lives that were taken. I hope that what transpired that day will always live on in the hearts and memories of the men and women who enjoy their freedom thanks to the sacrifice of the young people of generations before them. I am grateful that the folks of Uxbridge have taken it upon themselves to always keep this memory alive. They have carried the flame forward to this day and I cannot repay them, but I will do my best to help carry the flame from here, in honor of these brave men who were friends and crew-mates of my father, God rest their souls.