A man is trudging through the unkempt grass looking around awe, despair, or maybe even a sense of nostalgia. As far as the eye can see, there are countless rows of engines and propellers removed from fallen warbirds. The rows were neat and aligned just like tombstones, though there positioned side by side, each row is separated by a wide, clear pathway. One who sauntered through these aisles could feel dwarfed by either the sheer size of the scraps or by the tragedy that each piece signified. This man, a former pilot in the American Air Force, tarried on with his hands in his pockets, pensively gazing upon the gaggle of dilapidated, mangled war machines; probably taking into account the human death toll that accompanied them. This man is Fred
