It was April 29, 1944 and we were over the English Channel when "Little Joe" Guida came into the radio room of our B-17 Bomber and sat on my parachute. Glancing back from my chair, I said, "Little Joe don't sit on my chute. Suppose I have to use it today?" "Hell, it won't hurt to sit on it," he said and he tossed it across the radio room. A few minutes later he returned to the ball turret. Over Berlin, hit by flak and fighters, our plane burst into flame. Intense fire started in the exact spot where Little Joe had sat on my chute. If he hadn't moved it, I would have been on the plane when it exploded. Little Joe died that day. Since then, I've tried to live in a manner that would honor his memory.