As it happens, my uncle Earl, who managed to survive a large number of scenic tours over Mr. Hitler's Germany in a B17, was killed extremely dead by the first B29 in which he attempted to rise several thousand feet above terra firma.
I suppose it may be an exaggeration on my part to say he was killed "extremely" dead. It would clearly suffice to say that he was killed dead enough to stay dead these many years since the unpleasantness of the Forties.
Another of my relatives flew a C47 into a Tibetan cloud formation that proved, alas, to be filled with the rocky tip of a mountain. He ended up as dead as uncle Earl, or so it is assumed. Clearer weather revealed scattered wreckage on the peak but no movement.
I survive, perhaps because I have done little sillier with my life than race motorcycles, and have spent only a little time in military aircraft (though much of that in a mines-loaded Lockheed P2V).