Suddenly an ear-shocking sound swooped low overhead, rattling our house, and bringing us to our feet. We ran outside in time to see an airplane drop out of the clouds and land on our muddy field. Few airplanes came our way. Never before had we seen one on the ground. Staying a safe distance from this one, we stared at the two men sitting in the open cockpits.
One of them climbed down and shouted, “Where are we?” in an accent strange to us. He looked rosy-cheeked, young, and well fed. So did the other man when he joined us. They were brothers, Frank and Stanley, from Illinois, with an unpronounceable last name. They were on their way to Florida when their fuel ran low.