Picture if you will a red Coca-Cola truck rumbling along a gravel road on a hot South Alabama morning not really so long ago. In the little town of Asbury, everybody knew everybody and everybody knew 25-year-old Neal Snell. He was the Coca-Cola man. He was married to a sweetheart of a woman named Beth, and they had a beautiful little girl with a curly Shirley Temple mane named Theresa. It was 1943 and WWII was something townsfolk and the rest of the world lived and died for every day. As a boy, Neal dreamed of being a pilot. Years later, in a box hidden away in an attic, there are still-filled notebooks with drawings of planes. One summer he even took flying lessons. Secret flying lessons which he kept secret until one day his parents came to an airfield where Neal's cousin was waiting. "Where is Neal?" they asked. The cousin pointed toward a small plane in the wild blue yonder and said, "He's up there. He's up there!"

The telegram came on a beautiful, sunny Alabama afternoon. The Western Union man had the unbearable task of taking it to the family. He took it to Neal's father who was working at the hardware store in Asbury. He was devastated. A little while later, Neal's father and other family members took the short drive out to Neal's house to tell the horrible news to his young wife and daughter. His daughter, Theresa, still barely remembers that day. Mother was in the kitchen making fudge when the car came up the driveway. She knew why they were there and she fell apart. A little while later, she took me out on the porch and the two of us just sat out there. Just us. We were alone.