When I was in sixth grade, on Veterans’ Day, they had an old RAF fighter pilot from WWII come in to speak to the class. He was a sweet little old man with white hair and it was hard to imagine him flying a fighter plane and shooting down enemy aircraft. But when he started to tell his stories his eyes lit up and he became animated, swooping his hand gracefully through the air to simulate the various paths his plane took.
Speaking with a slight Cockney accent he explained, “Then I seen this fokker comin’ right at me from one o’clock, so I dives and turns right and comes up right behind him. I fired my guns and blew that fokker right out of the air! Then I sees two more of them fokkers comin’ up from below, at seven o’clock, so’s I….”
Just then, the teacher, Mrs. Johnson, interrupts with, “I think we should explain to the sixth graders that Fokker was a type of German aircraft.”
“Oh no Miss. They waz flyin’ Messerschmitts.”
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