My Dad's combine burned up a couple years ago and we have one cell phone picture snapped by a neighbor from when it was fully engulfed. That picture makes my blood run cold.
My Dad, who was 82 or 83 at the time, realized he was on fire while unloading the last round of beans at the end, next to a field of standing corn. He immediately took off, away from the neighbor's field. Since the fuel tank burned through on the end rows, he didn't make it too far before the fuel in the line hit zero. He stepped out of the cab as the flames licked him. It was too hot to reach back in to grab anything. He admitted to me the following day he had to jump from the platform, no time for the ladder because the fire was so hot. I spent the next day with him, getting the bean head unhooked as it only had minor damage, and general clean up of salvaged tools and dealing with insurance and new equipment acquisition discussion.
I took hundreds of pictures the next day of the burned up combine, and I have one half-melted light in my office as a reminder of how courage and crazy are sometimes inseparable.