One of my assigned tasks as a Flight Surgeon was the investigation of aircraft accidents. My first experience with the process came in October 1965 shortly after my arrival in Viet Nam. A Douglas A1E Skyraider lost power on take-off from our airfield at Nha Trang. The pilot was forced to ditch the plane in the ocean about a mile from the runway. Fortunately, he was able to crawl out onto a wing and was rescued just as the plane sank.

Two years later, in 1968 I was part of a team that investigated the crash of a US Army helicopter south of London. The Huey had lost its tail rotor and spiraled into a farmer's barnyard exploding on impact. All four on board were killed.

Because the Army had limited resources in England, they asked for Air Force assistance. I worked part-time in the Command Surgeon's office and was assigned to the investigation along with another Air Force officer. 

The accident had occurred in a rural area not far from the London Borough of Sutton (my mother's maiden name). We drove to the site from our headquarters in South Ruislip.

It was close to noon on a gray, drizzly day when we arrived. The bodies of the crew and passengers had been removed, but the burned out shell of the aircraft remained, surrounded by the bloated carcasses of a dozen unfortunate cows. They had been killed by the fiery impact and flying rotor blades. 

To stay dry as we waited for the Army contingent to arrive, we stepped into a small English pub across a narrow road from the accident scene. After ordering coffee and a sandwich, we took a seat at a corner table. On the wall beside us I noticed a photograph of a young American GI. He looked fresh and innocent in his World War II Army uniform. Below the photo was a framed letter from the boy’s parents addressed to the owner of the pub. It was dated June, 1944. They said their young soldier had spent  6 months in the area training for the allied invasion of France. In his correspondence home, their son spoke fondly of the camaraderie and fellowship he experienced during frequent visits to the pub. It was clear to the parents that he was accepted and appreciated by the villagers.

The letter ended with heartfelt thanks to the townspeople, for the kindness shown the young man during his final months of his life. He died, they said, on the beaches of Normandy.