FROM THE ARCHIVES OF THE SHEFFIELD HISTORY GROUP: hello, I am the nephew of the bombadier on the Mi Amigo. My name is Enrique, my uncle was Melchor Hernandez. Of course, I knew that his plane crashed in your town, but I did not know any details until I read the thorough account on your website. My mother, Dolores, is one of his younger sisters, and was very close to him. As a kid, I visited his grave many times. It is a very modest affair, just a headstone. He also had a younger brother, Lelo, who was a paratrooper, but I dont think he saw any combat - entered the war too late. Lelo is still alive but suffered a stroke about 5 years ago. Rey also had an older sister, Carmen, very pretty, many suitors, but never married. She was like a second mother to all of us kids. Died of cancer about 7 years ago. Melchor, we all, called him Rey (Ray), overcame many obstacles to be on a bomber crew. His family was extremely poor (not all that unusual during the Depression). There were often nights without dinner. Rey was quite skinny and had difficulty making the minimum flight weight. He said if he was going to be killed, he didnt want to die in the mud. He bought a life insurance policy in the name of his mother. After his death she collected $50/month until she died at the age of 95. The insurance company would call periodically to see if she was still alive. My grandparents bought their first house with that money. Rey had 13 nephews and nieces. Of course, none of us ever met him as we started popping up in the 1950s. I write a little poetry when I get a chance. I hope you dont mind if I share a piece with you (note: Tio=uncle): NUCCIO There is Carmelitas Chorizo works and places fading away like the Melmac factory. Whittier Boulevard is waking, and the comfort of morning beer beckons at the Starlight, the Sarong. Flower shops with $5 bouquets and dead mans dirt. There are the Stations of the Cross along the little windy roads, which, even after all these decades, still confuse me, and that is why I need you Angel Nuccio. That is why I need your Doric columns, your bold righteous wings, white marble skin, and, yes, even your strong, Christ-like feet. You guide me to a tailors son, the bombardier from the barrio, 2nd Lieutenant Hernandez, USAAF. Tio. You guide me to a gray piece of sky, wet with mist, at that moment when my 45 rpm, metallic blue youth would not be contingent on flying Mexicans. Yes, Angel Nuccio, I need your gentle hands, your nymphet form, and cold eyes. -Enrique Souffle
Posted on: Sat, 23 Aug 2014 09:29:06 +0000
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