You flew your Mustang high above us, flying flying flying. Gunning the enemy down. Your red painted bird like a ravenous angel. As life is cruel, you were never felled by Nazi guns. English bad weather slayed you. Your warbird came to earth near Crewe. As Sunny 8 exploded she blew your wingman's wingtip off, you died. Also that day, your other wingman fell near Mossley. Half a score Mustangs. Fate decreed death. Not by Luftwaffe fire. English weather. Six months before you, if you were bounced by Messerschmitt 262s, would you two of died and one be damaged or all lost? Air war is chess, so is English weather. Yankee Mustang pilots impacting damp English earth. Now their ghosts, souls and names belong to forever England.