"I
think, once you get into the air and get your night vision, you'll even
enjoy it. Okay?" "Aye,
sir." The instruments
on the panel were illuminated with a soft green glow. The switches on
the control panel were not lighted and had to be located by feel, adding
yet another level of difficulty to the operation. As the men
were harnessed in and their seatbelts firmly snapped, Wright spoke again, "We'll
move slowly on the mat and taxiway, go up and take a good look-see at
what's around us. Okay?" "Aye,
sir. Thank you, sir." "We'll
just follow the plane ahead of us, taxi down the runway, circle the field
and touch and go and do it again." "Aye,
sir." Billy started
his engine, warmed it up, checked his controls and the mags, had Jonesy
pull the chocks and joined the roaring, slowly moving procession to the
runway. Each plane
had lights on its wingtips: red on the port side, green on the starboard. Rows
of flre pots on both sides of the runway illuminated the field. When his
plane rose into the dark night sky, Billy felt all that he had learned
during daylight flying was useless, locked in the cargo space. He felt
he had somehow flown into a cave. He was immediately overwhelmed with
what seemed to be futile navigation. "Take
your time, Mr. Benson," Mr.
Wright said through the gosport. "Be patient. Wait for your eyes
to adjust to the night conditions." In only minutes,
the lights on the ground became visible. The base
was spread out below them like a gigantic black mat, pin-pointed with
circles of streetlights, crossing and crisscrossing geometrically. The
red lights atop the red and white-checkered water tower near the base
hangars winked encouragingly at him and he made out the revolving light
at the control tower. He observed the orange glow of the flare pots on
the runway. Memphis came
into view beyond as a fuzzy, parabolic illumination. He could see the
lights across the Mississippi River Bridge and into east Arkansas. He
felt more confident now. It was rather like the exhilaration he used
to feel being on a roller coaster or halted on the top of a Ferris wheel. "Okay," Mr.
Wright said, "I'm going to take it in.
Keep your eyes on the flare pots with your peripheral vision. There
is no exact science to night landings. Just don't panic. When you find
your landing spot on the field, make your approach, reduce your power
and glide on in. "Frankly,
the pots along the sides interfere with my night vision," he
added, "so I prefer to just look straight ahead. That way, I can
estimate when I'm about twenty feet off the runway for my landings." His
instructor approached the landing strip and stalled his aircraft enough
to perform a touch and go. He then added power and took off. He circled
the field and did it a second and then a third time. "Okay,
Mr. Benson, you try it this time." "A touch
and go or a full-stall landing?" he shouted into
Mr. Wright's ear. "One
of each." "Aye,
sir." Billy swallowed
hard as he grasped the stick and placed his feet on the pedals. He looked
out of both sides of the plane and climbed slowly, circled the field
and picked his landing site. When he was
lined up between the two rows of lights, he began his approach, dropping,
dropping, slower and slower, until he was hovering between the smoky,
flickering orange lamps. He kept his eyes straight ahead where the rows
nearly converged. He reduced his power as the wheels touched the runway
easily and smoothly. Greased
it, he said to himself proudly and
with relief. He pushed
the throttle forward to climb again. "Good
job, Mr. Benson. Once more around for another touch and go, circle the
field and then land." "Aye,
aye, sir." Can I
do it a second time? He banked
another graceful wide circle around the field and began his second approach. Come
on, Benson. Come on. One more time. Again,
he landed so seamlessly there was barely a feeling of contact when the
wheels delicately stroked the tarmac. Damn!
I did it again! Billy
couldn't stop grinning as he gunned the engine, made another broad circle
and set the plane down as well as his instructor had. "Good job,
Mr. Benson." Billy watched
with pride as Mr. Wright gave him his final up arrow at the hangar. "You're
a good pilot, Mr. Benson," he told Billy. "You're
a natural. You fly by the seat of your pants. You know that term, don't
you?" "Aye,
sir." "If
your test scores for ground school were as good as your check ride scores,
you'd be an ace in no time." Billy laughed
softly. "Aye, sir.
Thank you, sir." Mr. Wright
extended his hand. "It's been a
pleasure knowing you, Mr. Benson, and having you as my student." Billy
removed his glove and smiled again as he shook his flight instructor's
hand. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your patience. You're an excellent
pilot and teacher." "Thank
you. Good luck in intermediate and advanced." "Thank
you, sir." "Maybe
we'll see you back here as an instructor." "Thank you, sir.
But I hope not."
Last Flight at Primary
On
the morning of 10 June 1943, the last day of flight training, the cadets
were mustered on the flight line alongside their planes, instructors
and plane captains. The cadets had been assembled to perform their last
flight at primary: a massive 'V' formation, made up of 15 smaller formations
of three planes each. On a signal,
the men saluted their instructors, climbed into their cockpits---two
to a plane---and prepared to taxi into position, beginning with the planes
at the farthest end of the flight line. Lining up
in threes, groups of nine planes took off simultaneously with the center
formation slightly forward of the groups on either side. The subsequent
Stearmans fell in behind the lead group and the formation soon increased
to a total of 45 planes, one enormous 'V', their engines droning on hypnotically
like the flight of giant yellow bees, the wind singing through the struts
and cables of the wings. Billy was
piloting his Stearman with Bob Hawthorne in the front seat as co-pilot,
and in the last position on the port side of the formation. Billy wore
the non-issue white silk scarf his older sister Alice had sent him. He
had arranged it so the long ends would billow behind him over the fuselage.
He felt like Captain Marvel, with his cape fluttering in the breeze. As
they soared majestically over the city of Memphis, crossed the Mississippi
River and turned back over Memphis, people on the sidewalks below stopped
to gaze skyward. Housewives emerged from their homes and shaded their
eyes with their hands to behold the spectacle. Motorists craned their
necks to peer through their windshields. School children in playgrounds
pointed and laughed at the final flight of the primary cadets. As Billy
looked ahead and to his right, he felt chills over his body at the sight
of the yellow bi-wing planes, the sun reflecting luminously off their
taut, golden skins against a brilliant blue sky. It looks
like…like…a
flight of angels, he thought. A flight
of angels. The men
landed, walked quietly to the hangar to return their parachutes and flight
gear and marched back to their quarters. Primary flight
school ended on 11 June 1943, as unceremoniously as had pre-flight. The
four phases of their training could be compared to a symphony. The first
two movements were completed, but there would be no applause until all
four were concluded.
Billy's First Night Flight 