Last week, the two airmen met again in a waiting room at Bay Pines VA Medical Center. Welborn had driven from Jacksonville, where the two other surviving crew members of a B-24 Liberator had gathered for a reunion. The plane's pilot, Still, would have been there, too, but doctors wanted to take a closer look at some spots on his lung. The spots turned out to be rib fragments from a recent fall.

With the day thus unclouded by medical news, the war buddies, now both 80, were free to swap stories and show off battle scars.

The afternoon contrasted favorably with the last experience they shared: being shot down on a bombing run over Kassel, Germany.

More B-24s -- at least 18,300 of them -- were built than any other type of plane in World War II, or any other American warplane, ever. Still and Welborn were part of the 506th Squadron of the 44th Bomb Group of the Eighth Air Force, which dropped one-third of its entire supply of bombs, more than a quarter of a million tons, on railroad marshaling yards, according to the current issue of American Heritage magazine.

Similar attacks during the last nine months of the war on oil refineries, bridges, highways, trucks and tanks are thought to have crippled the German economy and transport system.

The 66-foot-long B-24 was an ungainly but effective tool. Historian Stephen Ambrose, who wrote the American Heritage article, likens the Liberator to "a 1930s Mack truck, except that it had an aluminum skin that could be cut with a knife."

The plane typically flew at 10,000 feet. Crew members breathed oxygen through air masks. Those who manned the 10, .50-caliber machine guns had to wear gloves to keep their hands from freezing to the metal. Bottles and bags substituted for restrooms.

The crew flew out of East Anglia, England, directly across the English Channel from France. Because the plane weighed 60,000 pounds and carried 8,000 pounds of bombs when loaded, its four engines barely had enough power to take off. On one occasion, Still remembers scraping treetops before finally gaining altitude.

On Oct. 7, 1944, Still's seventh mission, the formation of bombers were approaching a rail yard on the outskirts of Kassel when they were hit by antiaircraft fire from the ground.

"When we were being hit, I got on the intercom and told everybody to bail out," Still said. "When they get you, they fire in a series of four shots -- pop pop pop pop. In a very few seconds, the tail was blown off, and much of the wings. It was just blown to smithereens."

Still unbuckled his seat belt and dropped to the roof of the plane, which was either spinning or flying upside down. He thinks he was the last one out.

"My hair was singed, I went through fire," Still said. "There were pieces of the wing flying down with me."

He tells this story calmly and evenly, focusing on his listener from beneath bristly eyebrows. Still broke his ankle in the jump. Three other crew members were found dead on the ground. Still was quickly taken to Stalag Luft I, a camp for captured airmen.

His recitation was interrupted by the arrival of Welborn, and the two embraced. Welborn soon showed a scar that covered most of a trim and fit abdomen. A former college linebacker, Welborn still looks the part. He presented Still with a photo of the crew, signed by the three other surviving members.

One of these, radio operator Jack Lord, wrote, "Despite everything, we won the war."

The salty humor and stories that had bonded the men quickly resurfaced.

"The only misdemeanor about you," Still told Welborn, "is when we were over Paris."

Still claimed he had to seize control of the plane, which was flying low and straight toward a church steeple. Welborn had gotten distracted checking out women on the street.

Welborn's fate on the bombing run and afterward was even darker than Still's. His oxygen tank exploded, causing massive internal damage. He barely had enough strength to pull the rip cord.

Once on the ground, Welborn was set upon by villagers and severely beaten. Doctors performed two operations -- the first to repair a torn liver and ruptured stomach; the second to remove five fragments from his right eye, which was blinded.

"There was no anaesthetic; but I guess I was in shock, anyway," Welborn said of the surgery that saved his life. A German nurse held his hand. A priest came to administer last rites. A nun gave him a silver cross, which he still wears.

Russians liberated Stalag Luft I May 1, 1945, just days from the end of the war. Still had only caught a glimpse of Welborn once across the prison yard, before Welborn was transferred to a site for injured POWs. A few years ago, at a reunion of what everyone thought were the only surviving crew members, word went around that Welborn had died.

Welborn has had his share of health problems since retiring from the Madisonville, Ky., high school where he taught science and coached a football team to a state championship. Six weeks ago, daughter Lisa Wicks, 44, followed up on Welborn's desire to write his memoirs.

She checked an Internet white pages directory for Florida and punched in Still's name. It took only one phone call to reach him.

Still has worked as a finance officer for the state and taught accounting at the University of Florida. He lives in St. Pete Beach. Asked if he ever shed a tear on hearing that Welborn was alive and trying to reach him, Still replied, "A couple."

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