My dad shot down a P-38... well, not really... the story goes like this...
He was on some island in the south pacific, extending a runway. There was a swamp at the end of the existing runway. Dad was, among other things, a demolitions officer. So his commanding officer tells him to blast the swamp. Dad consults his field manual, and it tells him to put one stick of dynamite every so many feet, a couple feet down. He does, pushes the plunger, and the swamp burps some mud into the air and falls right back where it came from. His C.O. tells him to halve the space between holes and do it again. He does, pushes the plunger and the swamp burps again. So the C.O. tells him to halve the space once more AND double the dynamite. He asks the "Are you sure about that?" question, gets chewed out for asking, and follows orders. He pushes the plunger, the swamp vaporizes and a huge chunk of coral flies through the air and smashes a P-38 parked on the other side of the air field. His buddies painted a P-38 on the side of his jeep.
Dad went on to finish college after the war interrupted it, become an architect, painted watercolors, studied archeology, astronomy and geology, become a construction specifications writer, build his own home and raise 5 kids with my mom. He was also a member of the Knights of Columbus, volunteered his time at the church and school, worked with the Campfire Girls (I had sisters) and the Boy Scouts, and took care of his mom in her old age, while he had (unknowingly) cancer. He fought that battle with courage and dignity, and refused to give in until the very end. If ever there was a role model for me to follow, he was it.