The United States Navy looked at George Preddy and said no. Three times. Too small. Too frail. Not pilot material.
The Army took him. Within two years, he was flying a P-51 Mustang over occupied Europe with more aerial victories than almost anyone in the Eighth Air Force.
On August 5, 1944, his squadron got the night off. A party started. Preddy drank. Hard. Then at one in the morning, the mission was back on — escort bombers to Hamburg. His commander said he was unfit to fly. One man stepped in and vouched for him. Hours later, Preddy was at thirty thousand feet with a pounding headache, shaking hands, and more than thirty Messerschmitts closing on the bomber formation.
What he did next should have been impossible. What happened to him after should never have happened at all.
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