This is the true story of three great men. All three men are veterans, all three men are exceptional.

My husband, Harry, (adoptive name Kirby, AKA Harry Milton Thompson III) was a rifle platoon leader in 1969-1970 Vietnam. He was a draftee that would rather not have served, but when he did, he served proudly. For that pride though, he and his fellow Vietnam service members were treated horrendously by fellow Americans when they returned stateside. It is a measure of Harry's character that he shrugged it off and used the skills of management, teamwork and expediency, all learned from his time in service, to excel in his future life.

Harry never knew his biological father, he did not know where he lived, what he did for a living or if he was even alive. We did know however, that his full name was Harry Milton Thompson II, and that he had been a bombardier in a B17G in World War II. We knew the plane was named Mason and Dixon. Other than that we thought he may be or had been living in Nevada.

In the early 1990's, we found Harry's father. He was in a VA hospital in Reno, Nevada and he was very ill. When we went to see him, he was not able to immediately recognize that the man in front of him was his son. After tapping into some different nicknames I had found on some of Harry's baby photos, his father finally recognized one of the names, 'Little T'. It was as though a shock had gone through this elderly gentlemen. He became very animated and talkative. Not all of what he said was decipherable, but as he gradually became more and more lucid, we learned this man, this WWII vet was an honorable man.

More than that, we learned the circumstances of why he had had no contact with Harry. After many decades, my husband learned how often his father had tried to reach his son and the reasons he was not able to accomplish that goal. It was the greatest gift ever given to my husband. He never left his father's side the entire trip.

We made arrangements to bring Harry's father home to live with us in Arizona. We spoke with him every morning and night, treasuring those conversations so much that I wrote parts of them down while speaking on the phone with that very warm and funny man. Sadly, within 2 weeks, the VA social worker called us to say that Harry's father had passed peacefully in his sleep. The social worker said, and I believe he was correct, that he had seen this sort of thing before. An individual who is very, very ill, simply will not let go as though they are waiting for an accomplishment they needed to get done. That last wish to stay alive a little bit longer, was for the father and son to meet in person. To connect, to heal, to forego any regrets and simply love each other in the time they had with each other while together on this earth.

That very sad death, that time in our lives where we ached as though we three had talked on the porch stoop everyday for decades, galvanized me. I wanted to know how he lived his life and where he lived and worked. More than anything I wanted to know his military legacy. I began to use whatever library, government entity and contacts within every state I knew Harry's Dad had lived. It was a fortunate time to begin to research. I had recently retired and the internet had begun to explode with information. Eventually. I learned he had served in the 8th Air Force, flown 35 missions, was at Thorpe Abbotts with the 'Bloody 100th' BG, at station 139 with the 351st squad. I was lucky enough to find a somewhat out of range photo of him and his fellow crew members in front of their Flying Fortress, Mason and Dixon.

I have found very little else about Harry's father, but I have never stopped looking along every information avenue I can find to travel.

In 2005, I came across a packet of letters on EBay. They were love letters, cards, correspondence, ticket stubs all belonging to a Private Johnson when he was in Italy/Corsica/ Sicily in WWII. I decided to buy the packet and try to locate the family of Private Johnson.

As time went by and portals into various WWII Bomb Wings, Groups and Squads became more and more accessible, I spent hours researching for the Johnson family. That is when I came across the site for the 57th Bomb Wing members. The group was stationed throughout Africa, Sicily, Corsica and my last known location of Private Johnson, Italy. I posted an inquiry on the site and the Lord sent it to Victor Hancock, the editor for the 57th Bomb Wing's group magazine.

Along with an editorial career, Victor was the pilot of a B25J Mitchell in the 12th Air Force, 57th Bomb group, 321st/445th. After WWII, he went on to fly in Korea and then have a career in piloting corporate aircraft. This is an astounding man. He has knowledge, warmth, humility, and wisdom that I knew immediately was far and above an average person. In the ensuing decade + we have stayed in touch, but it was within those first email communications that I came to really appreciate him. He guided me through some issues that he saw in such clear perspective, I wondered why I had ever been so perplexed. I have saved those emails and every few years, reread them. They are a trove of insight, and so wonderfully interesting as he wrote of his life.

Now, I always go to his 'Facebook' page before I look at my own. Whether it is the 36 years with Harry, the 3 weeks with his father, or the past 11 years with Victor, these three men have become intertwined in the very fabric of my life. I have such respect, admiration and love for them. I know with certainty I would not be the person I am today if they had not been a part of the life I have led.

I have not been in a big rush to be one of those 'My Bucket List' people. When I think of some of the things I have put in buckets through the years, I would rather not reach in to take something out.

The 'To Do' list is another phrase I would not use to describe those items in my future I would like to do before…well, before there is no 'my future'. That phrase is too close to listing chores that need done to exact an exuberant reaction from me.

So, I call my future great expectations, 'My Desirables'.

My entire life I have always desired to go to Alaska. Now, after knowing Victor's history, I want to place flowers on his Mother's gravesite.

I desire to show Harry, a lifelong man of the desert, the beautiful and breathtaking changing fall colors of Michigan.

I desire to see friends I never thought I would see again. Now I know where they are in their lives… I will see their faces once more.

I desire to ride a horse into the Superstition Wilderness.

I desire to visit the Smithsonian Museums and travel not too far away to stand and shake my fist at the Capitol Building. Then go in and watch a few sessions to try to decipher into which abyss our tax money disappeared.

So many desirables, they go on and on, some minor, some imperative.
To list them would take too much time away from trying to achieve them.

However, this past weekend, I achieved one of my desirables, one I have looked forward to, and thought of, for over a decade. Victor and the 57th Bomb Wing came to Arizona for one of their reunions.
One of the days spent in Arizona was to be at the Mesa CAF (Commemorative Air Force) museum, a place that has been a favorite haunt of mine while looking for WWII information. The airfield is very close, about 10 miles from our home.
I had been excited for weeks knowing it was possible I would meet him in person, this internet man of mine, this true beacon in a world sometimes full of indifference, abruptness and disrespect.

He is everything I thought he would be, he is what is good about America. It was an honor for Harry and I to meet Victor and his friends of the 57th Bomb Wing group.

Harry M Thompson