...of when Harmon was shot down over China in his P-38.

In any case, his celebrity couldn't help Harmon now. Three of the Zeros headed toward the American bombers. Meanwhile, he snuck up under a Zero and opened up his guns. The canopy of the Japanese fighter sheered away, its engine burst into flames. The Zero spun out of control, free falling toward the ground, trailing fire and smoke. Harmon pulled up, looking for another target. The dogfight was roaring some eight thousand feet above the Yangtze River, about 350 miles into Japanese-occupied China. It was a cool, clear Saturday morning, good visibility. He soon found another target.

As a Zero climbed from a lake below, Harmon plunged in on it and fired. A chunk tore out of the Zero's left wing then—Ba-boom—it blew up. It was Harmon's third kill of the war.

He had no time to celebrate. From nowhere, three shots tore into his P-38. One clanged off the armor plating behind him. Another banged off the armor under his seat. The third bullet shot between his legs, igniting the gas line, blowing his famously fleet feet off the pedals and ripping off most of his pants. He reached down, frantically patting with his hands to exterminate the flames searing his legs. The console exploded. His cockpit instantly became an inferno. Harmon was on fire, his plane free-falling earthward. With his left hand he painfully loosened his seat belt, jettisoned his canopy, and was immediately sucked out into the open air, into the dogfight.

Harmon panicked. He yanked his ripcord; the parachute jerked open. Far too soon. He was five thousand feet in the air, in the middle of a 10-plane dogfight, a free-floating, defenseless target under a billowing white bullseye. Zeros strafed his chute. He hung his head down over chest and played dead. And he prayed. Oh, did he pray.