This is an IHeart podcast.

And we continue with our American stories up next.

A story from our regular listener and contributor, Roger Latham, from Fort Worth, Texas.

Let's take a listen.

On a sunny June day in 1944, the only sound on the flight deck was the wind as the B-24

Liberator, absent the power of its four engines, glided to its final

moments of life before ditching in the choppy waters of the Adriatic Sea. My father, Lieutenant

Ernie Latham, was pilot in command. Attention crew. Get to the back of the plane. Certain his men had followed his last order, he now focused all of his attention on flying the wounded bird.

The command was standard operating procedure.

The tail section would give the crew the best chance to survive.

Earlier, as the wounded plane limped its way across Yugoslavia,

he gave them the opportunity to parachute.

No one jumped.

Now, at 300 feet above the water, it was too late.

The young lieutenant and his entire crew would digest

their fates together. Flapps. Ernie spoke in normal tone and volume. There was no need to panic.

It only made flying the airplane more difficult. Seconds later, the flaps remained unmoved.

Hogan dropped the flaps. Ernie shouted the command as he glanced at his co-pilot. Lieutenant Hogan seemed transfixed on the instrument panel.

His hands were in his lap and in a flat, monotone voice.

He kept repeating, I can't believe this is repeating, I can't believe this is happening.

I can't believe this is happening.

The plane slammed head on into the wave.

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