ELEVEN and one 10
 

ELEVEN! That's right, count `em! ELEVEN fighter pilots and one 10! The lady was a 10---in all aspects of renowned beauty, body, personality, with the innate ability to charm. She could bewitch, captivate,
enchant, beguile, and fascinate through a scintillating smile!

When we dated, I gave her the nickname “Sparky” and I think what happened was totally unfair and contrary to laws or convention! You see, the number ELEVEN mentioned above refers to the number of fighter pilots who are all dead---that is, except ME! All, but two were killed in jet fighter planes, all within six months in 1952 and `53, and all of them were friends, including Sparky’s husband, their best man and the love of Sparky’s best friend, Gloria.

I am number ELEVEN! I knew them all! Best man at one's wedding, killed soon after he was married. Another whom Sparky dated, killed in an airline crash. The third told me of his upcoming death, killed on a gunnery mission the next day! Sparky's husband was killed on his first combat mission. Her best man killed a week later on a combat mission. Gloria's friend told me he would never see Las Vegas again alive. He was right, killed in a horrific transport crash while returning to Korea after an R & R! The four other pilots, all part of our gang of SEVEN COME ELEVEN (it was, after all, Las Vegas) all died within three days in the 8th Fighter Bomber Wing's terrifying close support missions in the battle of the Chorwon Valley, Korea, 1953.

Why me? Why didn't I die? As a flight leader I flew 22 close support missions in five days! Pure LUCK! I gained something desirable (my life) by chance! Or did the Grim Reaper allow me to live to postulate SEVEN COME ELEVEN?

I have been to Las Vegas maybe 200 times in the past 50 years. I don't gamble! It would be ill advised and dishonorable of me to grab the dice and  say, “Come on bones! Seven come eleven!” I have enough scars on my heart.