his shoulder as he made out his instrument flight plan. Pappy said nothing when he was finished, simply walked out of the room and the building carrying his parachute and a small bag. Jack grabbed a parachute and walked quickly after him.
Pappy climbed in the rear seat of the small airplane and strapped himself in.
Jack decided the best thing to do under the circumstances was to cross every t and dot every i in the procedure to fly an aircraft under instrument flight conditions, and did so.
There was not a peep from the backseat.
At 5,000 feet over Eufala, Alabama, on a course for Fort Gordon, Georgia, Jack turned in his seat to see what Pappy was doing. Pappy’s little bag had apparently contained a rubber pillow, for Pappy, his head resting against a rubber pillow, was sound asleep.
Jack almost gave in to the temptation to wake Pappy by making a hard landing at Gordon, considered this briefly, and then did the opposite. He greased it in, and the proof that it was a greaser came when he turned and looked, at the end of the landing roll, and Pappy was still asleep.
They were directed to a parking space at the Fort Gordon airstrip—and it wasn’t much of an airstrip, Jack noted—by a soldier, and Jack started to shut the aircraft down.
Pappy’s voice came metallically in his earphones. “How much fuel do you have remaining, Lieutenant?”
“About forty minutes, sir.”
“That should be sufficient, Lieutenant,” Pappy ordered. “It is my professional opinion, as an instructor pilot in L-19 Series aircraft, that I have given you sufficient instruction and that you have demonstrated sufficient basic piloting skills to be allowed to attempt solo flight.”
“What?” Jack blurted.
“As soon as I exit the aircraft, Lieutenant, you will attempt solo flight as follows: You will request permission to taxi to the end of the runway, where you will request to take off under visual flight rules for a local flight. When permission is granted, you will take off, climb to three thousand feet on a due north course, and then request permission to shoot a touch-and-go landing. When permission is granted, you will make such a touch-and-go landing, and again climb to three thousand feet, at which point you will request permission to land. You will then land. Got that all? Won’t it be necessary for you to write your orders down?”
“No, sir.”
“On landing, you will tie the aircraft down in the prescribed manner, arrange for it to be refueled, supervise such refueling, and then you may join me in the coffee shop.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
Pappy opened the door and got out and walked to the small Base Operations building.
Shaking his head, Jack reached for the microphone.
“Gordon, Army Sixteen Twenty-Six, an L-19 aircraft, by Base Ops, request taxi and takeoff permission for a local flight under visual rules.”
“Sir, the aircraft has been serviced and is tied down,” Jack said to Pappy at the coffee shop in Base Ops.
Pappy put out his hand.
“Congratulations on your first solo flight,” he said.
Jack ignored the hand.
“Actually, I soloed when I was twelve,” Jack said.
“I have had several telephone calls concerning you lately,” Pappy said. “The first came from Craig Lowell. He said you were getting a commission and wanted to know if there would be any problem in getting you checked out in an L23. I told him I didn’t think so.”
Then what’s all this nonsense about soloing in that damned L-19?
“Call two was from Bob Bellmon. He had two concerns. The first one was for your well-being, and the second that he didn’t want it bandied about that the general’s son-in-law was getting special treatment. He asked me if I would personally check you out, as opposed to doing it with a ballpoint, and I said sure. Bob Bellmon is one of the good guys.”
“I understand,” Jack said.
“Not yet, you don’t. Call three was from Miss Marjorie, who I literally bounced on my knee when she wore diapers. ‘Uncle Pappy,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t even know how to pin his bars on. When he’s out there with you, will you teach him how to act like an officer? He’ll take it from you, and he doesn’t like it when I say something.’ So I told her sure, too.”
“I didn’t know that,” Jack said.
“You still don’t know that,” Pappy said. “But still no problem. Then came call number four. Sandy Felter. Another of the good guys, and I owe him. He called last night, at half past nine. He wanted two