Gregory Guiteras
Recruit
- 9
- May 5, 2018
On Sept. 19, 1944, Abilene, TX, I was waiting for the carpool to pick my sister and me up for school. I was enjoying watching, as always, the dogfight exercises of a group of P-47s overhead. Just as we settled down at our desks, I heard a deafening, bloodcurdling yell from outside. I looked out the window and saw a plane; it was not moving right or left, up or down; just holding in place - only getting bigger and bigger. I remember standing up thinking, It's gonna crash! In that instant, the plane suddenly nosed down and threw up a huge, red and black fire ball, a block from our school. Glass shattered, ink wells flew out of their desk holes, kids pointed to a parachute, others to a crack in the wall. Shards of red-hot steel trailing smoke rained down on the school yard. I started crying and couldn't stop shaking. The afternoon paper said the P-47 crashed in a vacant lot, a piece of metal landed in a sand box with a little kid, and another piece flew into the bedroom window of an army general's home next door. No one was hurt, not even the pilot, Lt. Tom Toedt.
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