Most of his close friends are dead, so he protects his emotions by not making new friends. He cannot go through this again. He lives, but his youth died 50 missions ago. He is haunted by the visions of past combat missions, as he has watched his friends burn to death or bail out and their chutes not open. Home is an ethereal memory.
Tomorrow is a fog.
He deals only with today. His name is his description. It was 1944. I was 22 years old. Along with thousands of other young Americans, I had been trained to be an efficient killer, and the deadly skies over Europe were my battlefields.