True story: 25 years ago today I was a student pilot flying a Cessna 150 over the Hudson River, practicing steep turns with my instructor Adrian Salmon — a former professional reggae drummer from Jamaica. It was a beautiful September day. AA Flight 11 unexpectedly came into view, flying south following the Hudson — a big silver plane, sparkling in the sun. Low. Fast. A beautiful sight. Blissfully unaware of the horrors transpiring onboard, I excitedly pointed it out to Adrian. He had already seen it. "Pay attention to what you’re doing,” he said. He was a pro. I completed one full circle, the plane at a steep bank. Everything was normal. Lovely view of downtown Manhattan, the Twin Towers dominating the familiar skyline. The next circle, everything had changed. Smoke and fire pouring out of Tower 1. Adrian broke the silence and said it looked like a missile had hit the WTC. He switched the radio to the emergency frequency and listened for instructions. Mostly confusion. Then a clear message: national emergency. All civil aviation grounded. NY airspace closed. Adrian found a field in Connecticut, turned towards it and shoved the throttle to full power. I remember him telling me we needed to land quickly or risk being shot down. Surreal. It was only after we landed that we remembered that big silver airliner and put two and two together. We sat stranded at a local airfield in southern Connecticut, watching the news on a little black-and-white TV. Awful news that kept getting worse. Both towers hit. The Pentagon. The south tower fell. Then the north. You didn't need an imagination to know thousands of Americans had just died horrible deaths, crushed and burned. Murdered at their desks. The world I grew up in was going up in that smoke. The sense of optimism, stability, security, easy laughs — all gone forever. It’s hard to believe that was 25 years ago. The memories are still sharp, emotions still raw. For years afterward I had nightmares about things falling on me. Those have stopped, but damn it, I still have a lot of rage. That will never go away.

Urgent radio call from our Infantry brothers- Soviet tanks had broken through on the left flank and were making a determined push for the southern bank of the river near Rakhinka. I was to lead the formation with a pair of 109's for cover. Flak over the target or not, Ivan will not cross that river today.

On an escort mission for a squadron of Ju87s, when a few Russians rose to discourage us. One particular Ivan was determined, an excellent pilot who flew his machine for all it was worth. We spun round and round, dodging bullets in a fight that lasted until his ammo was spent. Both of us came away with our hides intact.

Winter 1942, escort duty, Smolensk Sector. Clear sky, good visibility. Enemy fighters sighted climbing hard from below to intercept. Contact initiated.#IL2,#DigitalAviationArt,#AviationArt

France, Summer 1944. First run damaged two Allied B-26 bombers, now pulling ahead of the bomber stream to set up a second run. Broken cloud, good visibility. #IL2Sturmovik,#DigitalAviationArt

One Against Ten. In the summer of 1916, the de Havilland DH.2 pusher was already considered obsolete- slow, awkward and outclassed by the latest German scouts. But on 1 July, 1916, the opening day of the Battle of the Somme, Major Lionel Rees of No. 32 Squadron proved that the man matters more than the machine. Flying alone, Rees spotted a formation of ten German two-seater bombers and attacked them single handedly. Despite being wounded in the leg and thigh early in the fight, he continued pressing the attack, shooting down two enemy aircraft and scattering the rest. He then flew his damaged DH.2 back to friendly lines. For this extraordinary act of bravery and determination, Rees was awarded the Victoria Cross- the highest award for gallantry in the British Empire. Rees survived the war and continued serving in the RAF. His story is a powerful reminder that courage, skill and sheer determination can overcome odds and outdated equipment. #WW1Aviation,#VictoriaCross,#WingnutWings,#IL2

The old Pusher was a death trap on a good day- slow, awkward and already obsolete. But its pilot flew like a man possessed. Whirling, weaving, dodging through the German's fire with sheer skill... or was it madness? Loops became tumbles, tumbles became spins, stalls and skids. Sky and cloud blurred into a dizzying blue whirl. Up was down and down was nowhere. The German's head reeled as the RFC madman slipped the crosshairs again and again. In the end, drenched in cold sweat, they both broke off and flew home, each chuckling about the encounter-- though the German's chuckle was decidedly rueful. #IL2,#WW1Aviation,#AviationArt