Every week I called Richard at Gracie’s, and Natalie and Marty, to let them know I was all right. Everything seemed to be fine there and I assured them that I was going to be the flying ace of World War II.
One day Richard called. “I have some news for you, Sidney. I just enlisted.”
For a moment my heart stopped. He was too young to—and then I realized he was no longer a little boy. I said, “Richard, I’m proud of you.”
One week later, he was on his way to boot camp.
Regularly, during our training, Captain Anderson would turn off the ignition without warning.
“Your engine just died, Sheldon. Make an emergency landing.”
I looked down. There was no place to land. But I could tell by his expression that that was not what he wanted to hear. I gradually lost altitude, until I could see a suitable place for a landing.
As I started to land, Captain Anderson switched on the ignition. “Good. Take it up.”
On the day Captain Anderson said, “You’re ready to solo, Sheldon,” I was filled with excitement.
“Be sure to coordinate your altitude and speed.”
I nodded, strapped on my parachute, and got into the plane, alone for the first time. The other flight groups were watching. I started taxiing down the field and moments later I was in the air. It was a fantastic feeling. A feeling of freedom. A feeling of breaking the bonds of earth and soaring into a new world. A feeling of not getting airsick.
I reached my pattern altitude of sixty-one hundred feet and went through my routine maneuvers.
I had been instructed to stay up in the air for twenty minutes. I glanced at my watch. It was time to show them all what a perfect landing looked like. I pushed the stick forward and began my descent. I could see the men down below, waiting for me on the field.
The rules for landing are fixed. The speeds at set altitudes had been drilled into us. As I got closer to the ground, I looked at the altimeter and suddenly realized that I had forgotten what speed I was supposed to be at. In fact, everything I had learned about flying had instantly gone out of my head. I had no idea what I was doing.
In a panic, I pulled the stick back to gain altitude and keep from crashing. I frantically tried to remember the formula for altitude and speed, but my mind was a blank. If I made a mistake in landing, I would crash and die. I flew around, shaken, trying to figure out what to do. I thought of bailing out, but I knew that the Air Corps could not spare any planes. But I could not stay up here forever. I had to land sometime.
I started my descent again, vainly trying to remember what my airspeed was supposed to be as I approached the runway. Down to a thousand feet, speed sixty miles an hour . . . Three hundred feet, speed fifty miles an hour . . . Was I going too fast? I circled the field three times, getting closer and closer to the ground. Fifty miles an hour. Too fast? Too slow? I took a deep breath and went for it.
The plane hit the ground, bounced up, hit the ground again, bounced up again, and finally settled, as I pulled back the stick and hit the brakes. I got out of the plane, trembling.
Captain Anderson, who had been on his way to town, had stopped when he saw what was happening and sped back to the airfield. He came rushing up to me.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” he demanded.
I was sweating profusely. “I—I don’t know. Next time I’ll be—”
“Not next time. Now!”
I was confused. “Now?”
“That’s right. Get back in that plane and take it up again.”
I thought he was joking.
“I’m waiting.”
So he meant it. I knew the saying “If you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on.” Captain Anderson apparently felt that the same thing also applied to planes. He was sending me to my death. I looked into his eyes and decided not to argue. I got back in the plane and sat there to control my breathing. If I died, it was going to be his fault.