The most extraordinary conversations happen when one least expects, particularly on icy-gray days when cloud cover is down to a few thousand feet and you are standing in a freezing airplane hangar, talking to real heroes. The legendary fighter plane "Charlotte's Chariot II" had flown into Hawkins Field to meet the upright, articulate Army Air Corps soldier who had worn her like an aerial boxing glove, emerging from the European skies of WWII to live a quiet professional life for six decades in Jackson: Cary Salter.

A large crowd cheered as the classic warplane landed, side marked with crosses recalling battles from which Cary had come home and others had not. We stood with Lanny Greenberg, air traffic manager for Hawkins Field, my former Ole Miss student, Ronny Frith, Hugh Trussell and other fans - for that is what we are - of the planes and fighter pilots whose personal acts of courage helped to save Western civilization. "I was just one...." said Cary, patiently answering questions from children, newsmen and others about his exploits, ".....one of many."

Col. Bill Ruddock was another hero welcomed, retired from the Air Force when he had been offered a general's star, putting his family and his teenage son ahead of his career. I have known only two senior officers who made this choice, the second a decorated Army general now working for Raytheon in Washington. "My daughter," he related "would not have done well in the Middle East, my next assignment. So we retired." Again, they put others first, either by defending the country in wartime or by recognizing that their children needed them and giving up deserved promotions to let others step forward. "The guy who took my job," said Ruddock, "retired as a three star. But my son is fine."

These are the calibre of people to whom we owe our safety, then and now. The colonel stood in the frigid hangar as we admired the still flight-worthy single seat attack plane, and related his own war experiences.

A delightful, happy man of 86, he and Cary are both testaments to life well and fully lived. "I met the Pope!" he informed me. "Pius XXII?!" "Yes, and he blessed me. In the Vatican at the close of the war, he invited me for a private audience. He asked if I had killed anyone. 'Yes,' I told him. 'Many times.' He asked if I had any guilt, and I told him no. It was part of the job. And he blessed me. Later on in Korea, I flew more than 100 missions. We were only supposed to fly about 25. I was to fly to Hawaii and rotate out. My colonel refused. 'Why am I flying north again? I trained my replacement crew!' 'Your replacement crew got shot down yesterday.' he said. So I flew some more missions. Then more.

“Finally a general visited our unit 'What's this I hear about guys flying 100 missions?' He didn't believe it. I raised my hand. Another guy had 98. The colonel got reassigned, and we came home."

"Others didn't?" "No." Time ran out for so many of these young men, in the air over Germany, France, and North Korea. All of them brave. All with families, now recalled as uniformed pictures in Mississippi homes and across the country. As these aged, alert and humble men talked with us matter-of-factly about deadly combat of days long past, their vivid experiences came alive again, more clearly than any movie.

"We flew in above the enemy. I was wingman; I went for the leader and timed my shots. I learned that from bird hunting. My lieutenant was practicing with his new sight, firing lots of rounds. The leaders went down (in a formation of 90). Some pilots bailed out. One didn't.....I came home with bullets in the gun."

The scattered force of Fokkers and Messerschmidts were on a deadly mission to attack Patton's 3rd Army. Because of Cary Salter and his gunslinging lieutenant, they never succeeded. Also because of Cary, Col. Bill and so many others, America - and all it represents today - did.

Linda Berry is a Northsider.