35 comments/ 33072 views/ 30 favorites Don't Wait for Me By: BenLong Late August I stopped and looked back over my shoulder momentarily at the ominous black clouds that had been rapidly growing larger and angrier for the last two hours. I reasoned I still had perhaps half an hour before I was liable to get very, very, wet. It figures, I thought; the forecast two days before had been for a week of clear and sunny weather but seldom did I ever get into the high country that it didn't rain at least once. Returning my eyes to the seemingly inscrutable cliff before me I tried again to decipher where the path that I'd spied from below had gone. I can't say as I've ever been lost. There have been many times where I didn't know exactly where I was, but I've never in my life been where I didn't know how to get to a location where I DID know where I was. Occasionally there were times, such as now, where I just didn't know how to get where I wanted to be, but I don't count that as lost. What I did know was that I was high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Well below me the Owen's valley assailed my eyes with its glaring white sands and rocks, in sharp contrast to the dark greens and browns of the forest, the last of which was now several hundred feet below me in the valley that I'd left perhaps an hour before. Here, on the rocky escarpment that I'd been climbing, headed for the ridge that would hopefully take me to the next valley, there was nothing for cover but spaces between boulders buffered by the subalpine brush scratching a life out of the barren ice sculpted mountain. Just a few miles away the rocky crag known as Mt. Whitney scratched the pristine air of the High Sierras, covered for more than half the year in winter snows, but that famous peak wasn't on my destination list. To the southeast, the shadow of the looming thunderstorm eased the harsh contrast of the desert floor from where it was bathed in direct sunlight. A cloud of dust on the desert floor was expanding in a semicircle from the leading cloud, visible evidence of the microburst phenomena that has been the cause of so many aviation accidents, and an indication that it would, soon, be windy where I was. The approaching wind was of secondary importance for the moment; primary importance was finding shelter. It wasn't really a technical climb; I didn't have ropes and pitons and a climbing partner -- I was just doing what I normally do, heading off cross country, by myself -- just because it looked like I could. Not recommended for the novice, but hey, this wasn't my first trip to the Sierras nor was it my first hike alone. As it turned out, the route I'd scoped out from below was just momentarily hidden from view. Traversing across the slope another hundred yards to my left and once again - although not knowing or caring exactly where I was -- I knew how to get to where I wanted to go. The sound of thunder rolled into my ears; with lightning approaching, exposed on a barren slope wasn't where I wanted to be. I hastened my climb, heading toward what appeared to almost be a cave, or at least a protective overhang, near the summit of the ridge ahead. A Marmot chattered at me, as if saying "Where the hell do you think you're going?" before disappearing into the black abyss of what I expected in just moments to be my protective cover. The sound of wind through the tall Douglas Fir forest in the canyon below sounded like rushing water as I felt the first gusts of the impending storm. Seconds later the staccato clacking of hail stones marched up the slope behind me, the first ice pellets hitting around me as I reached the ledge. Just before sliding under the rock, a single hailstone hit me in the back of the head as if to tell me I couldn't get away that easily. I slid in under the overhanging ledge, pulling my pack behind me. Lightning flashes, followed almost instantaneously by the thunder, let me know I was right in the center of the storm - but also gave me brief glimpses of the hole beyond. I reached for my flashlight to see if there was space or reason to try to move further inside the lip of the mountain when I felt the hair on the back of my arms rising with static electricity. ~ I awoke shivering, with a splitting headache, and wondering where I was. The white noise of rain falling hard outside my rock shelter put substance and background to my addled thoughts. Soon enough they began to coalesce into recollections; a mountain, climbing, a storm, hail -- and a blinding flash. I opened my eyes; the sun long gone, now nothing but darkness and the sound of rain - the lightning and hail transformed into night and just another rainstorm. Reaching again for my pack, I found my flashlight and examined my right arm and the stinging sensation. The hair that I'd felt rising with the static was gone. Sure now that I'd been hit by lightning, I did a quick self-exam but found nothing out of the ordinary except the missing hair on my arm, and a monstrous headache. Fumbling into a side pocket I found some ibuprofen, wondering as I did whether it was approved medically for treatment of lightning strike induced headache -- smiling bemusedly at myself as I wondered; if so, how would they know? At the moment, I really didn't care - I took a full 800 milligrams. Unrolling my sleeping bag and pad, I pulled my clothes off, slid in and covered my head. Having arrested the heat loss, the shivering soon came under control and I fell asleep. I awoke with first light. The rain from the night before was gone -- the few remaining clouds were turning from gray to pink illuminated from below by the sun which was still below the horizon. I didn't remember warming up, having fallen asleep still chilly, but now I was perfectly comfortable. The ledge had done for me what I needed, keeping me dry, and I'd had the proper modern equipment to warm myself. I hadn't even examined the ledge I'd slept on, but then again, I'd never had the chance. Now, bathed in the morning sun, I could see the ledge gradually narrowed as it approached the far end, a fairly large hole in the rocks making me think that was where the Marmot that had chided me the day before had disappeared to. I knew I'd have to poke my head up there before I left -- you never know what marvels are just barely missed unless you check. I've always had that urge to see what's just beyond the next corner, the next rock, the next valley -- which has kept me coming back year after year to pick up where I'd left off the last time. Coffee and reconstituted eggs finished, I repacked my camp stove, rolled up the bag and pad and got ready to leave. Looking out from my perch it reminded me of the picture from the Swiss Alps of a few years ago where a 7,000 year old man was found sitting on a ledge. Covered by snow for about 70 centuries, he was found perfectly mummified and preserved. I wondered if he -- like me -- had been struck by lightning on a stormy afternoon. Perhaps with just a little less luck, off the beaten path as I was, in another 7,000 years I could have been found and some future man would be wondering how I came to be there -- just as we wondered how that Swiss aborigine came to be where he was. The hole at the end of the slope appeared to get larger as I crawled to it. The opening, somewhat blocked from my view by the intervening rock, was easily large enough for me to push through. Not seeing any reason not to -- I left my backpack on the ledge and crawled inside to see how far in it went. The image of a cave changed as I crawled in, now seeming to be little more than a crawl space between boulders, its origin indeterminate. The rock felt solid, it didn't feel like piled up boulders, yet this cavern seemed to imply otherwise. So far above timberline, I wasn't particularly worried about bears, but a careful reconnoitering of the ground found no evidence of even so much as the Marmot. If my chattering friend from the day before had disappeared this way -- I saw no evidence of it. Expecting the little hole to peter out, I moved into the slot that disappeared to the right and found that it didn't. Looking around I realized there was no way to go except ahead or back -- so had no fear of getting lost. A twist to the right, a few feet later another turn left, and still there was no sign of the easily passable crawlway diminishing. I estimated I'd crawled maybe 50 meters into the mountain with no sign of anything except a rock passageway when the ceiling finally began to narrow down. I could tell it was soon going to be difficult to go further, and mindful of my rapidly disappearing headache, I decided I'd seen all I desired to. Turning around, I found in just a few feet that I could just sit up - if I did so carefully. I set the flashlight onto the ground shining back where I'd come from, and brushed the crumbled pebbles and dust from my elbows before attempting to crawl back out to my backpack. Glancing over my shoulder before I resumed my crawl, expecting inky blackness, I was surprised to see that I could still see the small opening that was left where I'd turned back. Thinking I was imagining things, I reached down and turned the flashlight off. Surprisingly I found that I was not in complete darkness. I flipped the light back on, turned around again, and headed toward that narrow spot where I'd previously turned back. Dropping onto my belly, I pushed the flashlight ahead, craned my head and neck through tiny opening and found that although quite narrow, I should easily be able to shimmy through the slot. Beyond the passage opened up nearly into the same size I'd been following. Moments later I'd shinnied through the narrow slot and after working through another couple of turns I found myself crawling through a hole in the canyon wall to a different valley. The way down would not be easy but, after surveying the slope above me, I couldn't readily detect any other way into this hanging valley. A lake in the very bottom glistened silver in the morning sun. A few stunted trees, somehow having gotten into this valley from beyond the otherwise barren cliffs, had managed to eke out a living in the otherwise stark conditions. A tiny meadow accented the upper end of the small lake; nature was already turning the silt of the lake into grass - the only other greenery visible. Although it would be a difficult descent, I decided that this little valley might be worth exploring. But without a readily visible path over the mountain, the only easily available entrance would be by way of the cave I'd just come through. Half an hour later, my pack retrieved, I began to pick my way down the scree and boulder slope to the valley below. I'm not sure when exactly I realized that the silver of the water below wasn't all water. Something about the reflections or the rocks seemed wrong, but I couldn't quite place what. Stopping on a boulder, I pulled my small binoculars from my pack to take a better look. I wasn't even sure where I was looking, or for what. Starting at the grasses and trees at the far end of the lake I scanned slowly along the shoreline until suddenly I realized exactly what it was that had caught my attention that I hadn't been able to place. A small rock protruding from the surface of the lake wasn't a rock at all; it was the tail of an airplane. A wing, broken off, was on its edge among the boulders, nearly invisible from above. What I'd taken to be a shiny boulder from above was actually the cockpit and broken fuselage. The canopy, surprisingly intact, had been pushed back. A stub of wing was visible on the closer dry side; the wing on the water side was totally missing or hidden from view. I couldn't tell how long the plane had been there, but it didn't appear to me to be badly weathered, just badly broken. It took nearly an hour for me to get off the steep slope and down to the plane. The closer I got the more details there were that became visible. The propeller was mangled, the blades broken or bent over. I would guess from the looks of it that the engine had not been producing much power when it hit. I looked back at the angle from which the plane would have had to have come from to be in the position it was now, and it appeared the plane had come over the small lake, probably trying to make an emergency landing. The nose and cockpit were on the shore, the broken tail facing the wrong direction with just the end sticking out. The numbers on the tail were visible and had a 41 prefix, which I think I remembered from reading about airplanes as a kid meant it had been funded by Congress in 1941. I couldn't tell for sure, but was fairly certain it was an early vintage Mustang. Perhaps the most famous American fighter of World War II, on this plane the canopy was intact, a flat sided early version of the Mustang rather than the bulbous all Plexiglas canopy of later versions that looked like a bug eye. Stopping where I was, with my birds-eye view, I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a picture. Somehow the canopy hadn't been knocked loose in the crash, and with it being pushed back, I wondered if the pilot had perhaps parachuted out, or maybe even survived the crash? It puzzled me that the plane didn't appear more weathered. It had to have been here for at least half a century, but as I drew closer, I was more and more amazed at the lack of fading of what little paint there was, most of the plane had shiny aluminum surfaces and just had the "feel" that it hadn't been here for long. I dropped my pack on a rock near the open canopy before clambering onto the remaining stub of the right wing. Green corrosion preventive paint covered the inside surfaces of the wing; spars and strings full of holes appeared like the skeleton of an animal. Some type of purple fluid was still visible against the wing root where it was attached to what remained of the fuselage, making me wonder how it could have been there after all those years, let alone after the torrential downpour of the previous day. Grabbing the edge of the cockpit to steady myself, I peered into the cockpit, amazed at how small it was. My remembrance of peering into a cockpit like this at an air show when I was just a youngster was that it was huge; this -- I would have a hard time being comfortable in. Inside the cockpit the leather seat, now exposed totally to the elements, appeared to be brand new. The smell of airplane -- aviation fuel, oil, leather, whatever it is that makes an airplane smell like it does, was still present. The instruments, what few there were, had gleaming white stripes and numbers, totally unlike the yellowed markings of older instruments. On the dash, stuck behind the bezel of the air speed indicator was a black and white photograph of a pretty young girl. I snapped another picture before leaning in to check it out. It was one of those old fashioned photos with the white trim and serrated cut edge; I recognized the style of photo as similar to what my mother had in her scrapbook when I was a kid. I thought it most likely had come from one of those old Kodak Brownie small black box cameras that it seemed like everyone had at one time or another. Flipping it over, on the back in pencil was "To Jimmy, with all my love, Liz." It had obviously gotten wet recently, but the picture itself didn't appear to be that old. A corner had been bent, the crinkled white line through the corner showing, but other than that it appeared in virtually new condition. From my perch on the wing of the plane, I looked around at the surrounding terrain. By now, I'd become convinced that this was no World War II relic; it had to have crashed fairly recently. No parachute was visible, no footsteps in the mud at the edge of the lake -- nothing to indicate that someone was near -- or had been. I swung my leg up and into the seat, realizing that although I could sit down, it would be a tight squeeze. Regardless, the thought of sitting in a P-51, my ultimate boyhood fantasy, was too great and I managed to slide in. The fantasy fulfilled wasn't quite as great as I expect it would have been on the end of a runway with the propeller spinning and the full throated roar of a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine pulling me into the air, but still -- it was a thrill. Standing again on the seat, I stepped out onto the much larger stub of the second wing, seeing something brown and streaked on the leading edge as I did. From here there was a slight drop to the ground off the front edge; going to the back would have put me into the water. Even further down the mountain the stream water had been extremely cold; there was no way I wanted to go swimming here in this snow and ice fed pond. I stepped forward and jumped two footed, landing on the exposed rock beside the fuselage. Stepping forward I examined the front of the plane, the exhaust tubes extending from the side, the broken and bent propeller blades. I stooped and peered under the nose looking for an air intake, forgetting that the mustang had a large scoop further back on the fuselage. I'd turned and looking back from the front snapped another picture, when I saw something that caused a chill to run up my spine. Barely visible in the small space under the wing stub that I'd just walked on was a man -- or at least the body of a man. It didn't take me long to get back to him, crawling into the tiny space under the wing. I wasn't sure if he was dead or alive until I gently reached for his neck to check for a pulse. As soon as I slipped my hand under the fur around his leather flight jacket, his eyes fluttered open. "You found me..." his voice cracked, barely audible but distinct; a vaguely southern accent immediately recognizable. "How are you doing?" I asked, not quite sure where to start in helping him. "Water," he whispered, which I more deciphered from watching his lips than actually heard. "Hold on, I'll be right back." Crawling back out from under the wing, this time I went around the front, and returned with my entire backpack. Pulling my aluminum water bottle out I started back, but then stopped and returned to fish more ibuprofen out first. Returning to the pilot, I knelt beside him, and assisted him in taking a drink. "Not too fast," I urged as he started to drink. He didn't listen, taking too much. He choked and coughed and spit up the first sip, then took the second a little smaller, followed moments later by a third. "Here," I said, passing him four ibuprofen; "take these." "What is it?" He asked, looking at the little brown pills. "Ibuprofen." "What?" "Ibuprofen." "What's that?" "Pain reliever? You know, like aspirin." It wasn't much, but it was all I had. "Oh," he painfully put the pills in his mouth, taking another swallow of water, larger this time. For the first time I looked to assess what kind of condition he might be in. He'd obviously crawled under head first, his legs extended nearly out from under the wing. He'd managed to get his parachute off; his head was pillowed on the pack, the silk pushed for the moment off to one side. I wondered if he'd tried to use it as a blanket last night. His left leg -- no, I corrected myself -- that's his right, my left, was very obviously broken. A large bruise was visible above his eye. "Can you tell me where it hurts?" I asked, deciding that crammed under the wing remains like we were I really couldn't do a head to toe assessment at this point in time. He looked at me and attempted a smile before he said "Everywhere?" His grimace told me as much as his answer. "Yeah, I can imagine. It looks like you've got a broken leg?" I questioned. "Yeah, maybe both." "Anywhere else?" "I may have broke some ribs, it hurts to breathe." "Yeah, that sounds like ribs. Anything else?" "Isn't that enough?" He attempted to smile, but it collapsed into another grimace. "Well at least you haven't lost your sense of humor," I said, "but perhaps you'd better just take it easy. Sit still for a moment, I'll be right back." I pulled my cellphone back out and turned it on. I was pretty sure I'd have no service, but occasionally when I'd least expected it, I had found spots that would seem to be in the middle of nowhere, but had enough of a straight shot to some cell tower in the valley below that they'd worked. Here however, there was nothing. "What's that?" he asked as I turned the phone back off to save the battery and clipped the holster to my belt. Don't Wait for Me "My Blackberry, but there's no cell service right here, I'm going to have to climb back up the mountain until I can get hold of someone." I watched his eyes follow my hand as I started to put the phone back into its holster. "A Black Berry? What's that?" "You know; a cell phone?" I answered, looking at the phone in my hand, and then for some reason held it out for him to see. He took it in his hand, holding it in front of him as if he'd never seen one before, flipping it over back and forth before saying, "It works without wires? Like a radio?" "Exactly." It was just another strange question in a very strange situation. He handed back the phone and I realized I should have left it on. Pushing the button, it began to boot up. "I suppose if I'm going to call for help, I should tell them who you are?" I questioned. "It might help, huh?" He answered. "Sgt. Jimmy Fallon, US Army." My Blackberry had just finished booting; I thumbed up the memo pad before continuing. "Sergeant Jimmy Fallon, USARMY" I typed into the memo pad as I repeated it aloud. I saw him through my peripheral vision doing something, as I looked back he'd pulled a small chain with two dog tags from around his neck, handing them to me. Taking them, I read the data encrypted on them, transferring it all to my memo pad. "Why don't you take one," he questioned, "that way you know you've got it right." "Got it right here," I said, holding the blackberry up to signify I'd copied it down. He'd expertly broken open the chain link, sliding one of the tags off before handing it to me. I took the tag anyway, and held the Blackberry out for him. He took it, but the screen had gone dark. "It's all black," he said. "Just touch a button," I answered. He did, and immediately dropped the blackberry. "How does it do that?" "Do what?" I asked, not understanding his question. "Go black, and then show up when I touch it? How does it know?" "It's just going into battery save mode; it turns the screen off after a certain time, but any key activates it again. Haven't you ever seen a Blackberry before?" He shook his head no. I shrugged. Crawling back out from under the wing, I looked at the sky and at my watch. Already nearly 2 pm, I'd been all morning getting to this point, and had a long way to go before I could get Sergeant Jimmy Fallon, US Army, some help. I untied my ground pad and sleeping bag, unrolled them and crawled back under the wing. "Jimmy, I'm going to have to hike out to get help, and it's not likely that I'll be back before dark. I'm going to leave you my sleeping bag and pad, it'll make you a bit more comfortable. Can you handle that?" "I think so." "Ok, good. This is the pad," I said, pulling it up beside us. "If you can roll over onto your side, I can slide this under you and get you off the ground. I don't think we'll be able to get you in the sleeping bag, so we'll just use that like a blanket, but you should be a bit warmer than last night, Ok?' His nod confirmed that he understood, and taking my hand he rolled himself toward me. On his side I slid the thinsulate underneath him, he rolled back down. He hadn't said a thing, but the sweat beads on his forehead let me know that it had hurt like the dickens. "How are you doing right now, are you cold?" "No. It was pretty cold at night, but once the sun comes out in the mornings it warms up pretty good." "Ok, then I'll just leave the sleeping bag, and you can pull it over you when it starts getting cold?" His nod confirmed that he agreed. I turned to figure out what else I could leave him, when I realized I hadn't even offered him any food. "Jimmy, have you had anything to eat? When was the last time you had food?" "Three days. Had breakfast the day I crashed." "Three days? You didn't crash yesterday in the storm?" "No, it was in the storm three days ago, on the 18th." I shook my head. "There wasn't any storm three days ago, yesterday was the first in a couple of weeks." "Maybe where you were. Yesterday was the worst since the day I crashed, but it's rained every afternoon." I just looked at him -- nothing about this was making sense. "Maybe I ought to have you tell me what happened -- from the beginning." He looked at me, obviously in thought, and then nodded. "Training flight. We left Oroville just after 11 hundred hours. We was supposed to make practice strafing runs at the bombing range and then return. Bishop was the alternate in case of trouble; I had engine trouble. I diverted to Bishop, but ran into weather." He paused occasionally during the disjointed description of his accident, obviously fighting the pain. "The lightning was pretty bad, it kept throwing the NDB around, and I couldn't get a good fix. I missed the base, when I finally got a fix, I was already past it and had to make a 180. I made the turn, but ran out of fuel. I thought for sure I was going to smack a mountain, but as I let down, I came out of the clouds. I thought I was going to have enough altitude to clear the ridge, but all of a sudden it was like I hit a brick wall. I was still flying, just wasn't going anywhere and I knew I didn't have enough altitude to clear the mountains." I knew what an NDB was, an obsolete navigation device that homed on AM radio stations and was affected by lightning, but I can't say as I've even seen a modern airplane that still has one installed. "Sounds like you got caught in a microburst," I interjected. He looked at me puzzled, and said, "A what?" "Microburst. A downdraft out of a thunderstorm has to go somewhere. When it hits the ground it goes out in all directions. If you're flying through it, suddenly the wind changes directions and you're toast." He shook his head. "Never heard of that, but makes sense." He didn't dwell on it, continuing his story. "I saw this valley; it looked like my best shot. I clipped the tree at the far end of the lake, cartwheeled once and came to rest where it is now. That was three days ago. I pulled myself out of the cockpit and crawled under here, but that was as far as I made it. I'm pretty sure that was three days ago." I nodded in affirmation; the 18th was indeed three days ago. But the rest of it made absolutely no sense. Training run? Bishop as an alternate? He spoke as if these were military bases, but neither location had been a military base -- for over half a century. At least running out of fuel made sense; that explained the lack of fumes or spilled fuel around the plane. I typed what he'd said into the Blackberry, just so I didn't get it wrong, and decided it would do no good to argue with him. He'd obviously hit his head -- although it was beginning to feel like I'd hit mine. Instead I pulled my backpack under the wing of the plane, showed him my small propane stove, refilled my water bottles for him and showed him my dehydrated food. Taking the flashlight and my small collapsible water bottle, I told Jim I'd be back with help as soon as I could. I'd just taken my first step, when a sharp "Terry!" brought me to a halt. "Yeah Jim?" "I need you to do me a favor." "Anything." I figured he meant for me to move his pillow or reset the sleeping bag, but it was more personal. "I need you to tell my Lizzie that I love her." "Ok, I can do that. How will I find her?' "She should be in the phone book. Lizzie Warshawski. She lives with her father in Oroville. I don't know the address." "Ok, I can look her up, but you can tell her yourself as soon as we get you out of here." He just looked at me, a look that I've never seen anywhere before, but I recognized it immediately for what it was, the look of death. Jimmy Fallon didn't expect to live. "Jimmy, we're going to get you out of here, probably first thing in the morning. I'll call Edwards, they'll surely have a helicopter that can be here in nothing flat and we'll get you out of here." Again he looked at me, but I could tell I hadn't gotten through to him. "Terry, Y'all sure do talk funny. I don't know who this Edward is, or what a hele... hilla... whatever it is does, but I don't think I'm gonna make it. You're a good man Terry. Will you tell my Lizzie one more thing..., Don't wait for me?" "Jim, I don't..." He interrupted me, "Just tell her?" "Ok, I'll tell her." I opened the memo pad once more, typed it in again, "Lizzie Warshawski, w/ Father, Oroville. Tell her don't wait." "I'll be back, Jimmy," "I know you will." I turned, surveying the valley once more, looking for another way out other than how I'd come in. To the southeast once again dark thunderclouds were beginning to loom their ugly heads over the mountains. Surrounded in all quadrants by high, virtually impassable cliffs, I confirmed the way I'd come in had to be my most assured way out, and headed back up the steep rocky slope. Without my pack, my jacket tied around my waist for later, the climbing up the cliff was much faster than it had been when I was coming down. I'm sure the thought of a man in need drove my legs, but still it was well over an hour before I could reach the slope where the hole that I'd come in from had been. The blatantly obvious landmarks of the morning weren't so blatantly obvious with the sun on the other side of the mountains, the shadows beginning to fall over the hill changing the look of everything. It was only by chance that I stumbled across my own footprints in one of the few soft dirt locations I'd come across and realized I was still about 50 yards too low on the mountain. Climbing the last little bit, suddenly everything became familiar and I ducked into the cave just as a large, quarter sized raindrops began to fall. I crawled back through the tunnel, easily climbing back through the narrow spot this time without a backpack to finesse through the hole. I was on my hands and knees until I could straighten where the higher roof section began and then with the ever increasing light coming from the outside opening to help me see, I suddenly stopped. Looking around I realized that although I'd been through this passage 3 times in the previous 24 hours I couldn't see a single footprint or crawl mark. Looking back over my shoulder where I'd just come out of the narrow slot, even in the diminished light I could see where I'd moved on the ancient dust covered floor. Whereas before I hadn't seen any sign of my chattering Marmot friend, now there were Marmot footprints all over as if he spent most of his time here. Wonder scratched the back of my brain, but I pushed it aside as I had an emergency call to make. I quickly slithered out of the tunnel and under the barren rock overhang only to find pelting rain again on the outside. It was too wet and slippery to travel on the rocks in the rain so I just holed up and waited, but not before trying the cell phone once more. Still no service, I turned it off and waited. There's nothing worse than having an emergency and not being able to do anything about it. The need for speed is well tempered by the need for safety, but we're not raised to think that way. Emergency vehicles flash by us on overcrowded roads; fathers-to-be run stoplights on the way to hospitals with expectant mothers. Hero's rush into burning buildings to save crying youngsters -- but sometimes those hero's never come out, those fathers pull in front of oncoming traffic, the crowds of cars don't hear - or totally disregard blaring sirens and accidents, or just seem to slow things down when we want to be in a hurry. Today -- I waited. Thoughts of the lightning strike that had to have nearly killed me yesterday tempered my thoughts of slipping down wet rocks and breaking my own leg -- or perhaps my neck. I was impatient -- but I waited. It was nearly two hours later, darkness rapidly overtaking the valley, before the rain let up. The dark cloud moving west over the mountains left clear skies over the late afternoon desert. I had nothing -- no food, no sleeping bag, and no water - with me; there was no holding back now. I started down the mountain. I got past the worst part, actually back onto the beaten path, before it got too dark to travel fast. Slowing in the darkness in the name of keeping my own neck intact, I continued to the edge of the section of cliff that once again gave me an open view of the Owens valley below. Trying my cell phone again, I was rewarded with two bars. Taking time to pull up my GPS and record the coordinates to go along with my physical description, I immediately dialed 911. I had no trouble convincing the 911 operator that I'd found a crashed military plane with a pilot in dire straits. They immediately patched me in to military search and rescue at Edwards Air Force Base. But getting through, and convincing them there really was a crashed plane with a surviving pilot were two different things. They assured me there were no known missing military planes; the SAR satellite had been receiving no distress beacons, but would I please hold? I did, and found myself soon talking with someone else, who then passed me to a Captain something or other. I'd repeated the information about Sergeant Jimmy Fallon, US Army, five times when the latest Captain told me to hold on for a moment, putting his hand over the phone. I could hear conversation but not what was being said, until he came back one more time. "Ok, Terry. I've got a little news here that corroborates part of your story. Tell me one more time, exactly where you are, and exactly where this plane is." I repeated everything one more time, followed by him asking me if I could stay exactly where I was. I told him I was standing on a cliff, two miles from my car, with no sleeping bag, no pack, no food, and that no -- I was going to go to my car. I told him exactly where it was and he said they'd have the sheriff meet me there. I was about to hang up when it dawned on me he hadn't told me anything about the corroborating evidence. I asked him if he could tell me what they'd found out, but he didn't answer at first, the phone was just quiet. "You said that Jimmy Fallon is alive, and waiting to be rescued?" "That's correct," I replied, exasperated at repeating myself for the umpteenth time. It was quiet for just a moment, I was about to ask again when he slowly and distinctly said "We actually traced it through the plane identification first, then matched his information through MIA registry. Sgt. Jimmy Fallon disappeared in a P-51 on a training flight out of the Oroville Army Air Corp Field on August 18th, 1942, sixty-nine years ago." ~ The sheriff was waiting at my car when I got there; he took me down to Independence where he dropped me off at a hotel in town. Exhausted, I fell into bed. Another Sheriff picked me up at 5 am; we got donuts and coffee before we went over to the airfield. The Air Force Search and Rescue helicopter landed at 5:45, and the next hour was spent repeating what I'd said the night before to a Major, who was in charge and to a recording where it was obvious they were trying to catch me in some kind of change to the story. A few minutes were spent going over maps, pinpointing the best guess of the coordinates of the crash site, describing what I'd seen. They left about 7:20, returning for fuel nearly two hours later -- having found nothing. Another two hour search without me followed, and again they found nothing. They refueled again, someone delivered sandwiches for lunch, and this time they finally agreed to take me along. Setting me up with a helmet and a few brief safety instructions, we headed back up the mountain. We followed the valley up, turned right, and crossing the ridge -- found nothing. It didn't look like what I'd seen the previous day; no lake, no meadow, no trees -- no plane. But they'd traveled fairly fast, so I had them circle back over the ridge and tried again. I found the main trail, spotted the area where I'd headed cross country, eventually finding the ledge where I'd been hit by lightning. Much closer to the top of the ridge than I'd thought, it was easy to pick out exactly where I would have come out and looked down on the lake and trees and meadow that I could so easily see in my mind's eye. But it wasn't there. "This is the ridge," I told them, pointing everything out, "and I would have come out just about there. I know this sounds crazy, but yesterday there was a lake and pine trees and this valley looked totally different." I could tell that no one believed me, but still I persisted. "Can we take it down lower; I know this is the valley." Suddenly it dawned on me, how could I have forgotten? I'd spent so much time just repeating what to them was an unbelievable story that they'd never asked, and I'd never thought of the other things. Reaching into my pocket, I shouted "Look, I completely forgot -- he gave me one of his dog tags, and I completely forgot -- I took pictures." I handed the dog tag over to the Major, who looked at it, flipped it over and then handed it to the guy next to him as I unlocked my cell and flipped it over to the photos. "My kids get these every year at the county fair." My mouth dropped open; everything I said or did seemed to be doing the opposite of what I wanted, almost making sure that no one believed me. I glanced back down at the phone, pulling up the pictures of the plane. "That didn't come from a county fair. If you check it out, I'm sure you'll find it's authentic." I handed him the cell phone. He hit the back button, moved to another picture, then a third, before looking back at me. "Can you take us lower, please?" The Major gave one curt nod, "Take 'er down." Slowly lowering into the enclosed valley, as we lost first one and then another thousand feet, things began to take shape. Looking where the lake had been, I realized that uphill from that, sometime in the past a landside of boulders had come down the hill. A large dead tree trunk jutted from the rubble, and suddenly it became clear what had happened. The tree trunk was nearly exactly where the live tree had been that I'd seen the day before. Somehow whatever had kept water from draining from the valley had broken; a land slide had covered the area, nearly obliterating all evidence of what had been there before. Once I figured the tree as a landmark, I followed my instincts to where it must have been -- and suddenly I saw something. "Look," I pointed. "Right there -- see that?" What appeared to be a long skinny tree trunk or something similar was barely visible, now bent in the middle, almost buried in the rubble from a land slide. "What are you looking at?" The Major questioned, "That tree trunk?" "It's not a tree trunk." I stated firmly, "It's a wing." We circled around again, coming in from another angle before the major said "I hate to admit it -- but I think he's right." There was nowhere to land, but the pilot lowered us down until two crewmen were able to crawl out and we pulled back up into a hover. In radio contact, it took just moments for them to confirm that what we were seeing was indeed the leading edge of a wing, now nearly buried by the rubble from the mountain, but definitely a wing. "Ok, so where's the rest of the plane?" "The wing was about 50 feet from the fuselage, just slightly north," I answered. The major relayed what I'd said to the crewmen, who began picking their way over the boulders. It was hard to tell from the air, but apparently the boulders had left large gaps underneath. One crewman dropped to his knees, and we heard him say "I've got something strange here." ~ It was a week before they recovered the body, or rather, what was left of the body, of Sgt. Jimmy Fallon, US Army Air Corp. The plane had protected his body from being totally buried, they recovered it from under the stub of the wing, a small pocket of protection. There was a chain around the neck of the skeleton, a single dog tag attached. When the major called and asked me to visit him at Edwards, I asked if he could get me permission to land at the base, and he did. Sitting in a room, this time with a General present, I told the tale one more time, from start to finish. I looked around the room, easily telling that most were still skeptical of my tale. Don't Wait for Me "You don't believe me," I said simply. Nobody said anything, but the Major raised a hand, wiggled his fingers in a "bring it here" motion and looked at an airman standing next to the door. The airman opened the door, and two additional airmen entered, carrying several boxes. The major stood and reached into the boxes, began pulling things out; a battered and scratched aluminum water bottle, a ratty old thinsulate pad, and a sleeping bag; slightly torn, but very similar to mine. "We found these with the body. His skeleton was lying on the thinsulate, some of his bones were stuck to it, and it's got what we presume are your initials in the corner. The sleeping bag has no identification, but it matches your description." Reaching into a larger box that had been set on the ground, he pulled out a mangled backpack. The nylon had been ripped in several places, the frame had been battered just like everything else, but it still looked like a backpack. "We found a small propane bottle in a pocket of the pack, unused, along with a receipt from Bishop Sporting Goods store that looked like it had been there half a century, but was still readable. It had the last four digits of your credit card, and the date of August 16th, 2011." He looked around the table; nobody said anything for a moment. "I don't know what to believe. The events of the last week are totally unbelievable. If I hadn't been here myself to see this unfold, I'm not sure I would believe it." He put the items back onto the table, and paused momentarily before looking around at the people around the table. "There are certain reports that are classified because no one ever knows what to do with them; I suspect this one will be one of those." ~ February 13th, 2012 The conference in Las Vegas over, I climbed into my plane and headed for home. I could have taken commercial, but taking my own plane was both cheaper and faster than commercial and a helluva lot more fun. I'd filed IFR, not because the weather was bad, but because it was nighttime. My mind wandered again to the thought that had been permeating my being for the last six months. I'd promised Jimmy Fallon that I'd find his Lizzie Warshawski and tell her that he loved her, and not to wait. Now I knew that, if I ever found her, I'd be able to tell her also about what had become of him. I'd checked back with the Air Force; they'd been unable to shed any light on who Lizzie Warshawski was. Jimmy's parents had both died in the 1950's -- he had no other known relatives. But in my mind, something about Lizzie was unfinished business. I'd flown up to Oroville, researched county records. I found a record of an Andrej Warshawski that had owned a house in the 1940's. I supposed that was Lizzie's father, but had no proof. He'd apparently sold it in 1948; I found no other record of Andrej Warshawski, anywhere. I'd used all the modern methods I could think of, but came up empty. I'd done what I could, but had left empty handed. Flying an airplane takes all the senses, including the ones that we can't quite define. A pilot is feeling the plane; its vibrations pummeling his backside and hands with information about what is happening in the engine, and in the air. His ears are tuned to the hum of the engine, whether turbine or piston; often the ear hears something change before the instruments tell the same tale. His nose smells the exhaust, his eyes scan the instruments and sky -- and the mind takes it all in, categorizes it all and makes a decision about once every second -- "Am I still good to go, or do I abort?" Good car drivers do the same -- bad car drivers are seen along the highways waiting for a tow truck. There are no tow trucks for airplanes; so we keep all our senses working. This day I had just passed Barstow when I sensed that something wasn't right. I couldn't immediately pinpoint what it was, but one or more of my senses had picked something up. I immediately went into hyper sensitive mode, scanning every instrument, and planning immediately what my next move was. Almost immediately ahead was Victorville and a two mile long runway left over from the days when it had been an Air Force base. I'd poked into the GPS the VCV call sign for Victorville and checked the heading that would get me there most directly, when the engine shuddered, stumbled and nearly quit. I immediately punched the "direct to" button and felt the autopilot turn the plane slightly as I began to trouble shoot. Years of training and practice took over -- I didn't even have to think of what to do. Fuel pump on, fuel selector valve swapped, ignition check -- and there it was. One of my two magnetos had apparently failed. Fuel pump back off, fuel back to fullest tank, and try again with the magneto -- still nothing. Setting it to run on only the one magneto, the engine smoothed out, but was running at less power than normal. I called Los Angeles Center, told them I had engine problems and was diverting to Victorville. They immediately asked if I was declaring an Emergency. I said no -- not yet. I was surprised to see fire engines setting on either side of the runway as I approached, and they immediately started up, following me down the runway as I touched down and began taxiing in. I then found out that the trouble with landing at the end of a 15,000 foot runway is that you then have to taxi 14,000 feet to the hangers and fuel station. I asked the tower to give my regards to LA Center for their help and asked if he could call me up and wake me when I got to my turnoff. We both laughed, but I didn't realize how much I'd really been shaken up until I climbed out of the plane and found my hands trembling from the adrenaline. It was still fairly early, but the airport repair shop was closed and had already gone home -- so I was spending the night. I wasn't unfamiliar with Victorville; I'd lived there for several years as a kid while my dad was in the Air Force, back when the field I'd just landed at was known as George Air Force Base. A taxi arrived shortly, and I asked him to take me to the Green Tree Inn. It used to be "the" hotel in town, but now was just one of several. In some respects it was still the same town -- although I realized it had grown much larger since the days when it was just another "town" on Route 66. I changed my mind and asked the taxi driver to take me to a good steak house, which he did -- leaving me his business card so I could call him directly when I was done. I ordered dinner, my ears beginning to search out and spy on the tables around me. A young couple across the room was making goo-goo eyes at each other, their giggles telling me exactly what they would be doing later. A family of four near the entrance was trying to be civil with each other, but something about the frigidity in the air told me the parents weren't getting along too well. Closest to me, four older women at a table were discussing their love lives, their friend's love lives, and generally just solving the world's problems. I wasn't really listening, I couldn't repeat what had been said until I latched onto one woman say "But haven't you lived here all your life, Beth?" "Oh no, it just seems that way. Mom moved here when she got a job teaching school in 1950. I was born in Oroville and grew up there for my first eight years." My ears were immediately all over their conversation, but for whatever reason it had come up -- the discussion had moved on to something else. I got my dinner ordered and had just started my salad when the ladies finished theirs and began to act like they were getting ready to leave. Leaving my salad, I stood up and walked over to them. "Excuse me, Ladies. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but, as I came in a bit ago, I heard one of you say that you'd grown up in Oroville, until about 1950?" "That was me, why?" I looked over at the woman, having already done the math. She would have been born in 1942 if she'd been 8 when she left which made her 70, or right at it. I wouldn't have picked her to be that old, maybe late 50's. She looked good for her age. "I was up there a few months ago trying to locate someone that had lived there back in the 1940's; I was just wondering if you've ever heard of someone named Lizzie Warshawski?" You'd have thought I hit her with a sledgehammer. Her mouth fell open, but she shut it again rapidly, her eyes narrowing; it was obvious that she was now wary of me. Her head nodded. "Yes, I know a Lizzie Warshawski. Why are you looking for her?" "It's kind of a long story, but I think she knew someone named Jimmy Fallon back during the war, and I've got a message for her from him. Would you know her, or know how to find her?" Whereas before she'd looked like I'd hit her with a sledgehammer, now she sat back down in her chair, pale as if she'd seen a ghost. "What is it Beth? What's wrong?" One of the other women stepped up beside her, in a protective stance. "It's ok," she answered, waving her away. Turning back to me, she said "I haven't heard those names in a long, long, time." "So you know her? Is she still alive?" She nodded. "Yes, I know her, and she's very much alive. Lizzie Warshawski is my mother, and Jimmy Fallon was my father." She stuck her hand out as if to shake mine. "I'm Elizabeth Wilson, Elizabeth Fallon before I got married," she said as I took her hand. "Maybe you'd like to tell me that long story?" Looking around at all four ladies I realized that my month's long search might almost be over. I nodded in agreement; "Perhaps you'd like to sit back down?" I didn't have to suggest it twice. I went over to my bag and retrieved a couple of items that I'd been keeping with me for the last few months. Putting one in my shirt pocket I returned to the table and began the story. I passed out several newspaper clippings about the finding of Jimmy Fallon. One was from the Greenville, South Carolina newspaper telling how their World War II hero had been found after being missing for nearly 70 years. Another was from the Oroville paper, essentially the same, but slanted as a missing Oroville pilot from the war. A third, the most comprehensive, was from the NY Times. Someone had obviously put some effort into that article having details such as that the plane was hundreds of miles from where it was supposed to be and that it had been found partially buried by a rock slide. None of them mentioned me, or anything of how the Air Force came to be searching under a pile of rocks for a 70 year old missing plane. Not unexpectedly all four ladies took my tale of how I unexpectedly came to be in Victorville again after over 40 years with a healthy dosage of disbelief. Just as I had with the Air Force I repeated certain segments again and again culminating with the discovery of the plane and his body, exactly where I'd said they were, and my sudden engine problems causing me to land here. I explained that I'd searched out Jimmy's family in South Carolina but discovered that he'd been an only child, his parents long deceased. Still, the idea that I'd spoken with a man, held the hand of a man, provided water and food to a man, dead for 70 years -- remained too far out to believe. "I don't blame you for being skeptical, I would be too. I could have read these articles, come up with some cockamamie story, except for a couple of things." I didn't continue; I just let them think for a moment. "What things?" Beth finally asked. I reached into my shirt pocket, keeping the object hidden in my hand. "I can't tell you how this happened, it defies anything I've ever experienced in my life -- but I swear to you, it did." I looked around at all four as I paused, my eyes coming to rest again on Beth. "How could I have known Lizzie Warshawski's name, if Jimmy hadn't told me? Even the New York Times couldn't come up with that information. As far as I can tell, no one anywhere knew about Lizzie Warshawski and Jimmy Fallon -- except for them," I looked around at them again, "and now you." I looked at the picture in my hand. "I didn't tell you about this. I took it out of the cockpit when I found it, just before I found Jimmy. I didn't even tell the Air Force; I put it in my pocket, and then forgot about it until later, and then it didn't seem to matter." I slid the picture across to Beth. She looked at the picture, turned it over and read the writing, then looked at the front again. "That's my mom," she said simply. She glanced at it one more time, and then passed the picture around the table. I took my cell phone out as they looked at the picture, and pulled up the pictures. "I can't explain this. All I can tell you is, that as I was about to go for help, Jimmy asked me to find Lizzie and tell her that he loved her, and I promised that I would. Call it true love, whatever you want, but I've got a message that I promised to deliver." I handed over the cell phone and showed them how to peruse through the pictures. "You can see the picture in the cockpit before I took it out," I said, pointing at the picture of the planes instrument panel. We sat saying nothing for a while; the ladies continued passing the picture and cell phone around. Apparently Beth decided to believe me, or to at least share her story, as she began talking quietly. "I never knew my father. He didn't even know that Mom was pregnant when he disappeared. He and Mom met at a USO dance, and they fell in love. They only had a few months together. He'd asked her to marry him, but they hadn't announced it to anyone when his plane didn't come back. It was about that same time that she discovered she was pregnant. I was born in '43; she put his name as the father on the birth certificate, giving me the married name she never got -- Elizabeth Fallon - but I've been called Beth all my life. Mom has always been Liz, but she said that my dad always called her Lizzie." "Mom was living with her parents and Granddad always felt that the Polish spelling of his name made him stick out, and not in a good way. When Grandma died in 1948, he had his name legally changed from "Andrej Warshawski"," she pronounced his first name with the "ja" sound at the end, "to "Andrew Shaw." Mom had her name changed to Elizabeth Shaw at the same time. It wasn't that grandpa sold the house to someone else; he'd just legally changed his name. He lived there until he died in the '70's. Grandpa insisted that Mom go to college; he and grandma helped raise me at least until grandma died. Mom got a job with the school district here in Victorville and we moved here when I was 8. I really don't remember Oroville at all -- I've always thought of Victorville as home." I don't know what it was that triggered the memory, but suddenly a thought popped into my head. "Oh My God!" I blurted out. Beth stopped; all four of them looked at me. "What?" I reached for the picture, Beth handed it back to me. I looked at the picture for probably the ten thousandth time since I'd found it -- and saw what I'd never seen before. I looked back at Beth, dumbfounded. "I know your mother." "What?" she took the picture back, looked at it, and then back at me. "How?" I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. "I didn't recognize her before. She's so young in that picture, but she was my teacher! I knew her as Miss Shaw, I may not have ever even known her first name, but she taught History and Drama in Junior High School. I had her for 7th grade before we moved away. You said she was a teacher and suddenly it all just clicked..." ~ It wasn't far to the nursing home. All four ladies came along; or rather, I rode along with them as I didn't have a car. I don't think I would have recognized Liz Shaw if I hadn't been introduced, she now looked even less like the pretty Junior High School teacher that I remembered from thirty five years before than she did in the 70 year old picture. Frail and in poor health, this nearly 90 year old woman was a mere wisp of the woman that had been my teacher. Nasal cannula and an oxygen bottle told the story; back in those days -- everyone smoked cigarettes. She was seated upright in bed, apparently asleep, but her eyes opened up when we entered the room, lighting up when she saw her daughter. A smile crossed her face, her eyes flicking to me and the other ladies questioning who we, or at least who I, was. "Mom, this is Terry. He thinks he was one of your students, from years ago." She offered her hand, I shook it gently, surprised at the coldness of her skin. "Forgive me if I don't remember you, but you don't look like a 14 year old anymore." I smiled at her attempt at humor. "Miss Shaw, I, um, have a message for you...." Now that I was here, I couldn't go on. Finding her had somehow seemed so important, but now that I had, I found myself unable to speak -- a lump in my throat. I reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved the picture. I glanced at it, turning it upright and handed it to her. She reached for the picture, puzzlement at first -- and then her eyes went wide with recognition. Her hand trembling, she turned the picture over; I could tell it was to confirm what she already knew was going to be there. Turning her eyes to me, she clutched the picture to her chest, her eyes coming back to me. "You found my Jimmy." "Yes. Yes I did." I looked around, pulled a chair from next to the wall over to the bed and sat down. She reached her hand out to my knee, and I began the tale, one last time. "He called my name as I was about to start back, and when I turned around he said, 'I need you to tell my Lizzie that I love her.' I told him that I would, and then he asked me to also tell you one more thing. He told me to tell you 'Don't wait for me.'" I ended my tale, letting her think about it momentarily, expecting that she, like everyone else would question the validity of my strange tale. Instead, she reached over and took my hand and began filling in the missing blanks. "We weren't supposed to be seeing each other. It was just short of my eighteenth birthday when we met, he was nineteen, almost twenty, and my father didn't approve. I'd snuck out with some of my girlfriends to go to the USO club. From the first time I saw him, I knew he was my one." "They didn't always know when they were going to get away from the base, but we'd make plans, and he always told me - to keep my father happy - if he wasn't there within fifteen minutes of when I thought he would be that I shouldn't wait for him. I always waited though; I'd tease him that I had to because he was always late, so I couldn't tell if he was late because he wasn't going to show or if it was just because he was late as usual. But I'd always wait as long as I could, regardless. Sometimes he'd never show, other times he'd show up late and he was always glad to see me. He'd kiss me; and then smile and put his finger on my nose and say 'I told you not to wait for me - but I'm glad you did.'" She smiled, obviously living the memory, and glanced over at her daughter, and then back at me. "I had a girlfriend whose parents had an unused maid's quarters behind their house at the back of the property. We'd go there and I always made it worth his while." "Mother!" Beth said, obviously at least mildly shocked at the insinuation that perhaps her mother had been a little bit illicit back in the days when marriage supposedly came before sex. "What? You didn't think you happened by magic, did you? I knew almost immediately he was my one, that he was going to be the father of my babies. Back then we didn't have the pill like they do today. We had condoms - or we had babies." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "Jimmy disappeared before even I knew I was pregnant. And then when he didn't come back... I waited a month before I told Mom and Dad. I thought Dad was going to kill me, but he didn't." Don't Wait for Me Her head swiveled around the room, talking to all of us. "What can I say, it was the war years; we were young, and we knew he might never come back, and I wanted to have his babies," she said, grinning happily at Beth, before looking back at me, her grin disappearing into a more somber look. "And he never did -- until now." She released my hand, taking it back to hold and look at the picture two handed for a moment. "He asked me to marry him, but we didn't have enough money for a ring. We were going to wait to tell everyone once we got the ring. He figured we'd have enough saved up by January, so we said if he didn't get shipped out first, we'd get married on Valentine's Day." She paused in her tale, obviously tired, but I suspected also reliving the memory again. Moments later she continued, "The last thing he ever said to me was the night before he left. He was walking to the bus to go back to base; he turned around, pointed his finger at me and winked and said "Don't wait for me!" Her reminiscing done, we all just sat quietly for a moment. "You never married?" I asked. "You were Miss Shaw when you were my teacher." "I still am Miss Shaw." She shook her head, "No, somehow getting married never felt right." She paused for a few moments, and then continued. "I could have. I didn't date anyone seriously for years; I kept feeling like Jimmy was going to come back some day. I dated some guys in college, but every time they started getting serious I broke it off. One of the other teachers and I saw each other for a few years before Beth went off to college, but he took it pretty hard when he asked me to marry him and I turned him down." She shook her head sadly, "he never understood." "Understood what, Mom?" "He never understood that I'd already found my true love, and it wasn't him. I cared for him a lot; he was a great lover -- but I could never love him." "Mom!" Beth interjected again, glancing at me, to see my reaction. I just kept looking at Liz Shaw. "Beth, I'm an old lady, and I don't care what anyone thinks anymore. I never pretended to be a nun, just a single woman." Beth obviously had more trouble with the discussion than I did. "And of course, Robert asked me to marry him too, but he understood. We moved in together and lived together for almost 30 years, until he died, almost 10 years ago." Turning to me, she passed the story back. "How did you find my Jimmy?" I told her the story, as unbelievable as it seemed; about how I'd found the plane, returned and called for help and that when we got back, on what had seemed to me to be the following day, everything had changed -- but somehow she knew that. She accepted the rest of the tale at face value, up until I told her it was just by chance that I was in Victorville at all. I explained the chain of coincidences over the last few hours that had brought me here, to her bedside, when she reached back over with her hand and put it on the back of mine. "Oh now, you really don't believe that do you?" I stopped and looked her in the face. She smiled and patted my hand understandingly. "Some things you just can't explain -- so don't try." Her eyes closed for a moment, obviously tired. I started to remove my hand from hers, but she gripped down on it, keeping me there. Her eyes opened, but she was looking past me, past all of us, to some place far away where only she could see. Her gaze shifted to me, her focus pulling back to the here and now. "Thank you, Terry. Thanks for bringing my Jimmy back to me. You don't need to worry, there's nothing wrong with your plane." Her gaze shifted to her daughter, then to the rest of us. "We were going to get married on St. Valentine's Day, 70 years ago tomorrow. I always felt that somehow he'd come back to me, but I guess now maybe it's him that's waiting for me." ~ She was right about the plane. I'd just spent two hours watching as the mechanic had tested the plane, found nothing wrong, and then proceeded to tear the magneto apart anyway -- only to find nothing wrong. He was just putting it back together when my cell phone rang. It was Beth, she was crying. At first I couldn't even comprehend that it was Beth that I was talking with, but once I figured out who it was, I knew what had happened before she told me. She was found in her bed, one hand holding Jimmy's picture to her chest - the other beside her as if she was holding someone's hand, a smile on her face. Lizzie Warshawski died peacefully in her sleep, sometime in the early morning hours of St. Valentine's Day on what would have been her 70th wedding anniversary. Lizzie and Jimmy were finally together again, her long wait was over.