Texas – Part Three
Bakers and Lungs
One afternoon, not long after Kaz and I had decided that to even consider flying lessons I would need a part-time job, we went out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant which had been recommended to us by the apartment complex manager. It was a small place—maybe six or seven tables—and it was located outside a cozy residential area just north of where we lived. The food was good, and even better, the prices were very reasonable. The only problem was their apparent lack of a waitress, as the same man who seated us was manning the register, taking the orders, and bussing the tables.
During our meal, I casually mentioned to Kaz that if she was willing to work for Chinese people she should probably apply for a job here. She laughed, saying that if she applied to work here she’d only want to be the cashier.
By the end of our meal, and after discussing this issue at length, Kaz had decided that if there was indeed a vacancy for a cashier at this restaurant she wouldn’t mind working here. As we paid for our meal we asked about this. The man who’d served us was now also working the register and said that if she was interested he’d be happy to take her application. The only thing though, he advised, was that he didn’t need a cashier. What he needed was a waitress. He handed Kaz an application form and told her to call him for an interview if she thought she’d be interested.
On the way home we talked about it, and although she wasn’t crazy about waitressing, thought that if the hourly pay was good she was willing to work there. Besides, she surmised, the extra money would come in handy for paying off our furniture debt; plus, because she had no friends or family here in Austin, her days at home were long and lonely. It would do her good to get out and work outside the home.
Since neither of us had previously considered her getting a job—our discussions had always centered on me getting a part-time job—we hadn’t figured out the logistics of her also working. Since Kaz didn’t know how to drive (and even if she did, we only had one car) I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out. Regardless, once we got home Kaz got busy filling out the application. Just as she started another problem surfaced. She had no Social Security card.
After we’d married on Okinawa, and before we’d departed for the states, she had applied for a Permanent Residence Card—commonly known as a ‘Green Card’, but not a Social Security card—as we had not anticipated her having to work once in the state. But without one I doubted that she could apply for any job.
The wait for the Social Security card wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, so about a month later Kaz was ready to work. She called the Chinese restaurant and was told that the cashier position was still open. Now, all we had to do was figure out how she was going to get to and from the job.
We decided that the only way this was going to work was to have her start her shift sometime during my two-hour lunch break. That way I could leave the base, take her to work, then by the time her shift was over I would be off work and would be able to pick her up. She discussed this with the owner of the restaurant and he said he’d be fine with that as long as she could be there not later than twelve noon. It would be close, but if I took off for lunch at eleven-thirty, I could have her there by noon.
Now that Kaz had secured a job it was my turn to look for something. Besides the crappy restaurant and poultry processing jobs I’d had in high school, the gas stations in Winnemucca and Olathe, I didn’t have outside experience in much else. Besides, I was burned out on these types of jobs and I wanted to try something else.
One day, as I was dropping off some of Kaz’s stuff at a laundry and dry cleaners located in the Capital Plaza mall across the street from our apartment, I noticed that the customer in front of me was a young black man who was dressed in a very stylish suit and a very expensive-looking pair of shoes. As he engaged the clerk behind the counter they began to chat. The waiting area was small and not very private so I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.
“So, Eddie,” the clerk asked, “how’s the shoe business nowadays?”
“Oh, you know—runs hot and cold,” the black man replied. “But for me, it’s always hot—if you know what I mean!”
“Well, you must be doing well considering these two new suits you’re picking up.”
“It’s all about knowing how to sell,” Eddie said, with a little chuckle. With that, the clerk hung two expensive and very stylish suits on the bar and Eddie pulled out some bills to settle the bill.
Pocketing his change and pulling the plastic-bagged suits off the bar, Eddie turned. “Excuse me,” he said, as he walked around me.
“So, where do you work?” I asked as he started towards the door.
“Huh? Oh…”
“I’m sorry,” I said, apologetically, “I couldn’t help hearing what you said about selling shoes.”
“No problem. I work just a couple of store fronts down. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just curious I guess. I never thought selling shoes would be so profitable. Those are some really nice clothes.”
“Thanks!” he said, smiling widely. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties and was very good looking. “It’s all about the smile! The ladies like that, you know.”
“Ladies?”
“Yeah, I work at Baker’s Shoes. A ladies’ shoe store.”
“Oh…”
“You should bring your wife or girlfriend in. We have the latest styles at half of department store prices. If you do decide to come in, be sure to ask for Eddie.”
Eddie smiled, turned, and smoothly walked out the door. As I completed my transaction with the clerk, I wondered what it would be like to work somewhere where you wore a nice suit and tie. Up to this point in my life, the only time I’d ever worn a suit was at our wedding on Okinawa; and I just couldn’t see wearing it again at someplace I worked.
That evening, over dinner, I brought the subject up to Kaz.
“You want to work selling woman shoes?” she asked, twisting her head in that inquisitive way and wrinkling her nose.
“Oh, I don’t know. All I’ve ever done is work at gas stations and that drive-in in Kansas. It would certainly be different to work in a nice clean store for a change.”
“But what you know about selling shoes to woman?”
“Nothing! But how hard could it be?”
“Woman very picky. Not like filling car with gas or making hamburger. Woman never know what she want to buy. Especially shoes.”
“OK, I guess that’s true—but I think I’ll drop by tomorrow anyway and fill out an application. Can’t hurt, you know.”
“Hmm. Do what you want, I guess.”
A couple of days after submitting an application I was called in to meet with the store manager. He was a small man, about five feet four inches, probably in his early fifties, and wore his lightly-graying brown hair slicked back. His name was Arthur Mims, and he’d been in the shoe-selling business for over thirty years. “I’m a licensed chiropractor,” he told me, “but early on I decided that I liked selling much better than I did cracking bones. Never looked back.”
He was constantly moving around—crossing and re-crossing his legs, popping his knuckles, readjusting his tie—so maybe he wouldn’t have done well as a chiropractor.
“When can you start?” he asked, looking over my application.
“Well, I’ll have to buy a couple of suits, since I only have one—so maybe this coming weekend?”
“Can you make it Friday evening? Say around four or five? That’s when the walk-ins start filing in, so I could use another set of feet on the floor. Eddie will show you the ropes…I think you met him already, right?”
“Yes, at the cleaners.”
“Oh sure. He’s my top salesman, so you’ll have a good teacher. Any questions?”
“Well, what about the pay?”
“You’ll work on commission…so the more you sell, the more you make. Plus, add-ons like buckles, shoe polish, purses, all add up, you know.”
“Well, if I could ask—how much is the commission?”
“You’ll earn eight percent for each pair of shoes you sell. Add-ons are twenty-five percent. So, you’ll want to sell, sell, sell!” He punctuated the last three words by snapping his fingers as he spit them out. I would soon learn that that was one of his annoying little habits. If he caught you lounging or day-dreaming, or letting customers just mill about the store, he’d sneak up behind you and hiss: “Sell (snap), sell (snap), sell (snap)!”
On the way out of the store, I stopped to look at the shoes arranged inside of the display windows. I was startled to see that the cheapest shoes (sandals) were $3.99, and the most expensive shoes (fancy patent-leather dress pumps) were priced at $9.99. At eight percent, I’d have to sell a whole hell of a lot of shoes just to make up for the price of the two suits I was about to buy.
By that first weekend, both Kaz and I were gainfully employed at our new jobs. She, cashiering part-time and bussing tables at Lungs Chinese Restaurant; and I, an apprentice working evenings from five to nine, and weekends from eight in the morning until ten at night, at Baker’s Shoe Store. There I was going to try my hand at selling shoes to what seemed like hundreds of women who seemed to want to try on dozens of pairs of shoes, and usually ended up leaving without buying a thing.
My dream of learning to fly suddenly seemed much further away now than when I didn’t have a part-time job.
Hits and Misses
Working part time at Baker’s Shoes was all at once interesting, boring, confusing, and stressful. Not ever having worked for a retail company, and never on commission, I experienced a steep learning curve for the first four or five weeks of my employment. I quickly discovered that this type of work was extremely competitive, and if I wanted to make any money at it I would have to quickly learn how to outmaneuver my four other co-workers on a daily, if not hourly, basis.
When I’d had my final interview with Mr. Sims the week before, I was told that for the first two months my pay would be based on a “draw”; that is, for that period of time I would be guaranteed a monthly salary of three hundred dollars a month, or seventy-five dollars a week, if my commissioned sales total remained below that threshold. However, if my paid commissions met or exceeded that amount, the draw would become moot and I would receive my actual earnings—minus deductions for federal withholding taxes, of course. After a quick mental calculation, I determined that based on an eight percent commission, to even meet the monthly draw I would have to sell almost four hundred pairs of the store’s highest priced $9.99 shoes. I further calculated that the odds of my accomplishing that feat (no pun intended), working four hours each weekday evening and full days over the weekend, were very long indeed.
I also learned that customer contact was determined by what was described as “ups”. Each morning (for those salesmen who worked full-time) the first customer of the day belonged to whoever sold the most shoes the day before, the second customer belonged to the next highest salesman, and so forth until everyone on the floor had had the opportunity to contact a customer. Each customer contact opportunity was known as an “up”, so whenever a customer came into the store and it was my turn to wait on her, Eddie, or whoever noticed her entering, would say, “Frank, it’s your up.” I soon learned not to depend on someone else (especially Eddie) to notice when a new customer entered the store. Several times, during my first few weeks, I was cheated out of my ups because I was not paying attention to the front door. Before I knew it, Eddie or one of the other salesmen were waiting on two or three customers while I had none. When I complained to Mr. Sims about this,s his dole reply was, “The eager bird gets the worm, and you gotta learn how to sell, sell, sell.”
My first week began on a Monday evening when I reported to the shoe store at five o’clock. After having put in a full day at the base, I hurried home to shower and change into one of the new suits I had bought on credit the previous weekend. Because I hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner, I hurried over to the mall and visited the full-line buffet offered at a Mervyn’s department store just a few storefronts down from the shoe store.
After getting briefed on how to document each shoe sale on the little sales pad and ensuring I understood that I had to turn in the carbon copies to the cashier, he turned me loose on the floor. Naturally, I was lost.
I did an absolute disservice to my first few customers who had to tolerate my not knowing what they were talking about when they described a particular style of shoe they were interested in—finally giving up after I had brought out the wrong thing—and taking me out to the display window to show me the exact shoe. Then they were forced to wait forever while I bumbled around in the storage room trying in vain to find the right box in the exact style and size before finally giving up and bringing out something completely different for them to try on.
But little by little I started getting comfortable in the job, and against all odds, that first month I missed meeting my draw by a hundred dollars. When Mr. Sims handed me that first paycheck I promised him that from then on I would exceed my draw. And I did—significantly. I had to…that’s how much I wanted to learn how to fly.
To her misfortune, Kaz was not having the same kind of success at Lungs as I was at Bakers. Although the owner had promised that she was being hired as a cashier, she ended up doing that job only when the restaurant was virtually empty. During the lunch and dinner rushes she wound up doing nothing but waiting on tables then bussing them up once the customers left, while the owner worked the register. Worse, a few times she was even asked to help out in the dish washing area when the little guy working back there got a little bit behind.
Tips were split up among the employees and typically were very low. So given the time and effort she was putting in at the restaurant compared to what she was bringing home, it was not a good deal for her at all. Two months after starting she came home disgusted and suggested that perhaps she should be looking for something else to do.
One day while I was driving Kaz to work I mentioned the buffet bar at Mervyns. I told her I’d stopped by there a couple of times for a quick bite before heading to the shoe store. It was quick and cheap—all you could eat for $1.99—and the food was decent. Almost as an afterthought she said that maybe she should look into getting a job there. “Anything would be better than working at that Chinese place,” she said. “Not only don’t I like the owner but he very cheap. You know, when I clean up table he order me to not throw away any food left on plate if customer not eat it. ‘Save it.’ He tells me. ‘Maybe warm it up again if another customer order same thing. Or maybe you can eat it for your lunch so cook doesn’t have to cook fresh for you.’”
“What?!” I said. “That’s disgusting. He can’t do that! I think if the health department found out they’d close him down.”
“Yeah, they should. He also make us save and re-serve butter not used by customer—and rolls too.”
“OK, that’s it!” I said forcefully. “Why don’t you just call in sick today and I’ll drop you off at the buffet where you can ask if they need help. If so, then you can put in your application while you’re there. Besides, if you get a job there it’ll be so much more convenient—it being just across the street from where we live, and all. What do you think?”
“OK with me. I don’t want to go to Chinese restaurant to work anymore anyway.”
So that was that. We turned around and I drove Kaz back to the apartment so she could change clothes. That afternoon when I got back from the base to get ready to go to the shoe store Kaz cheerfully informed me that she had indeed been hired at the buffet and would start work the next day. She would be training for a couple of weeks keeping the buffet stocked with fresh food, and because she had previous experience operating a cash register the manager assured her that she’d have first shot at an upcoming vacancy.
Because she didn’t bother to give the Lungs Restaurant manager the required two-week notice that she was quitting, he told her he’d just keep her last check.
TAC, Selling Techniques, and Pre-flight Prep
If I ever thought I had been busy before, I was sadly mistaken. Going to work every morning and discharging my TAC (Tactical Air Command) duties, and attending ground school and meteorological classes, while still selling shoes every evening and on Saturdays and Sundays didn’t allow me too much time for anything else.
As luck would have it the Air Force had sent down a directive dictating that TAC squadrons increase their field set-ups from one about every month to one every two weeks. Apparently, our times had been lagging in getting our equipment set up and operating during our drills, so the brass in Washington decided that we needed more practice.
Besides being physically exhausting, the time from start to finish easily consumed a twelve-hour day—leaving me no time to put in even a few hours at the shoe store. Worse, our breaks—but most importantly our two-hour lunches—were all but eliminated. While in the field we were provided box lunches and canned soft drinks by the base chow halls, and those were consumed between the times we set up and tore down our tents and equipment.
Somehow and luckily, our field exercises just happened to fall on days when I had no scheduled ground school or meteorological classes, so I was able to complete them successfully and without interruption.
Kaz was almost as busy—spending long hours at the buffet at Mervyns and trying to keep up with the small amount of housework in the apartment. When we did finally find ourselves at home together for a few hours we were too tired to do anything else but collapse from sheer exhaustion. And I hadn’t even started to fly yet!
By late July I had finally completed all my pre-flight classes, which I had been taking during my long lunch breaks, and I was ready to take to the air. By this time we’d saved enough money to comfortably defray my flight time, fuel costs, and instructor time—so now it was just a matter of trying to find the time that would actually allow me to take an airplane up into the air while still working two jobs.
That problem was solved one day as I was paying off my aviation class fees at the Aero Club and my future flight instructor, Captain Norgaard walked in.
“Hey!” he said, cheerfully as he walked up to the weather briefing desk. “I hear you passed your Ground School and Meteorology classes with flying colors and are ready to get some flying lessons under your belt.”
“Yup. Now all I have to do is find the time to do that.”
“What do you mean? You can get plenty of time during the weekends…money permitting, that is.”
“If only. I work all day on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“What? Here on the base?”
“No, I work part time at Bakers Shoe Store at Capital Plaza.”
“Every day?”
“Almost. I work from five during the weekday evenings until ten—an hour after we close; then, from eight in the morning until ten at night on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“Shit! Selling shoes?”
“Women’s shoes,” I said.
“Are you kidding me? When do you get any time off?”
“Well, I don’t have much of that, and my wife works too. She’s putting in twelve-hour days over at Mervyn’s at the same mall working on their cafeteria’s buffet line.”
“Jesus! You guys are insane. Why’re you doing all of that?”
“Well, we decided that for me to have a career in aviation we’d have to work hard and save enough money to finance that. So that’s what we’re doing. The only problem now is that I don’t know where I’m going to fit in any actual flying time.”
“So that’s the reason you were doing your ground classes during your lunch time, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Makes sense. So why couldn’t you do your flying during the same time?”
“Uh…I don’t know if it’s legal for me to do that. Technically, I’m on duty with the Air Force, so I don’t know if I can be actually flying when I’m on duty.”
“How long you get for lunch?”
“Anywhere from ninety minutes to two hours.”
“Every day?”
“Yes, when we’re not deployed in the field.”
“Shit, that’s more than enough time then. OK, how about I talk to your squadron commander and get his OK for you to take flying lessons during your time off for lunch?”
“You would do that?”
“Sure. I’d do anything to get me some more flying hours logged. You don’t think I’m gonna spend my time flying these damned F-4s all my life, do you? I got a couple of more years in this man’s Air Force then I’m gonna go fly me some commercial jets. Gotta have plenty of hours in my log book to make it easier for me to get hired.”
“OK, well I guess if the commander thinks it’s OK I can come up and take my flying lessons during my lunch time.”
“Fine! I’ll give you a call when that’s done. But for now, let’s look at the flight schedule and see if we can reserve one of the Cherokees for the next couple of days so we can get you up into the air—whaddya think?”
“Fine by me.”
“Now you know you’ll be paying the ‘wet rate’ (flight time plus fuel), plus my instructor fee, right for your hours flown, right?”
“Yes.”
“OK, just so you understand that it’s gonna be a little steep, financially, in the beginning. It’ll be cheaper once you solo. Then you won’t be paying me.”
“How many hours before I solo?”
“That depends on you. Normally, it takes at least ten or 12 hours for a student to solo. Sometimes it takes longer, occasionally a student does it in less. But it’ll depend on how good a pilot you turn out to be.”
“Ten or twelve hours…”
“Sounds like a lot of time, but it’ll go faster than you think. I’ll let you know how it goes with your commander.”
“How long after that before I’ll be ready for a check ride…you know, to get my license.”
“Whoa there partner! Let’s get you in the air before we start thinking about a certification. But, to answer your question, you can expect to go forty or more hours before being recommended for a check ride. Then, a good percentage of students don’t make it the first time. So let’s just concentrate on you learning how to handle the airplane, OK?”
“Sure, OK.” But in my mind, I kept thinking, ‘…forty hours…or more…’.
I walked out of the Aero Club, my head swimming. I was thinking of the expense I had just taken on, the time it may take me to complete the program, and the amount of effort that I’d have to devote to this endeavor. I worried if I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
***
On the other hand, things at the shoe store were going pretty smoothly, all things considered. I had quickly learned that to be successful in selling there were a set behaviors that I would have to develop and strictly adhere to. First, I was to always maintain a strict watch on the entrance door. Just because it was my up meant nothing to the rest of my co-workers—especially Eddie. If a customer or customers were loitering outside by the display windows checking out the different styles of shoes, one had to be extremely vigilant, if not clairvoyant, to determine just exactly when they were going to break towards the entrance door. If I was up, I had to make sure that I was positioned at just the right area of the store—not too close to the door, but close enough for me to meet and instantly greet the customers as they entered. Just as important, while lurking close to the door one must appear to be totally disinterested in said customer.
I developed a style that proved to be extremely successful. I would position myself at the center aisle of the store, about twenty or thirty feet from the front door, and busy myself with rearranging some shoes on display tables near the center of the store—all the while keeping the customers in view out of the corner of my eye. As they started to break for the door I would casually walk toward the front, careful not to make eye contact, but timing my stride so as to arrive at the entrance area at about the same time that they entered. If for some reason they changed their minds and stopped just short of the door or U-turned back out to the exterior walkway, I would nonchalantly direct my attention to the pole just to the left of the door on which display purses were hung and give them a good straightening out. If the customer or customers walked in they would instantly become the extreme focus of my attention. A big smile, a cheery greeting, and welcome was just the beginning of the outpouring of charm that I was about to bestow on them.
I found that solid and steady eye-to-eye contact was mandatory, coupled with a soft vocal manner, maybe a couple of registers higher than a normal male business voice. Lastly, and maybe most importantly, making them truly believe that they had just become the very center of my personal universe.
My trips to the back storeroom had to be short. Any more than a minute and the thick helping of charisma that I had shed all over them would slowly begin to dissipate. If I didn’t find the exact style that they’d asked for in their size, I would quickly grab three other similar styles or colors and bring them out. I would explain that not having their size in their requested style/color was really fortunate because, “…I think these styles/colors just look so much better on you because of the lovely shape of your foot, your magnificent skin tone/shade, or how this shoe accentuates the shape of your legs/calf.” The trick was to have them try them on and walk around near the mirrors. I would float around them being sure to compliment them how this shoe just transformed them and made them taller, shorter, or thinner. Of course, all this charm would not always work, but it never ceased to surprise me just how often it did.
Next, never be satisfied in just selling the customer one pair of shoes. If she came in looking for a dress shoe, also show her a pair of sandals or casual loafers. If it was casual she was looking for, also show her a dress pump—and be sure to add a nice matching purse and maybe a bow clip to accentuate the style. More often than not, a customer that walked in looking for a particular pair of shoes walked out with three or four pairs, a purse or two, and a set of nice add-on bows or clips for those nice black patent leather opera pumps. So, a $9.99 shoe sale could easily be catapulted into a $60 purchase just for one customer if one tried hard enough. (Sell, sell, sell!).
The real money was made when the store had enough customers for me to wait on two, three or four customers at the same time. Of course, some women didn’t react well to the charm routine so for them I would be sure to display a serious businesslike tone. When waiting on multiple customers I would have to adjust and change my character as I floated among them. At first, I found it difficult to do that, but the more I worked at it the better I got.
Touch was another aspect of the shoe sales game that I had to learn carefully. Eddie had advised that most women did not mind being touched if it was done impersonally and in a complimentary fashion. For example, if the customer was standing facing one of the full-length mirrors while looking down at the shoes I’d just placed on her feet, he suggested standing just off to the side, looking where she was looking. He suggested displaying a serious contemplative look, maybe left arm folded over midsection supporting the right elbow. The right arm should be extended up to one’s face, index finger curled across lips, shoulders back and head nodding approvingly.
I should then say, “Let’s see how these look from the back…”, and just gently touch her shoulder with one finger, lightly guiding her around so that her back was now to the mirror. Naturally, she’d look over a shoulder to see how the shoes would look from the back, and I, after quickly removing the finger, stepping back—and reassuming the previous contemplative stance—then say something like, “Oh my…just look at that!”
“You think they look nice?” she might ask.
“Well, your husband/boyfriend may not say anything out loud, but trust me, he would most certainly think so. Oh yes, most definitely.”
After that initial impersonal touch, which by the way would probably be categorized as sexual assault by today’s standards, she would usually become more amenable to one casually draping a purse over her shoulder, slipping a new pair of hose or socks on her feet, and so forth. That first delicate soupçon of physical attention would somehow transform the relationship from salesman/customer to personal advisor/woman.
I also learned from Eddie that the sales goal to set for oneself for a twelve-hour day was a thousand dollars in sales. If that goal was met I stood to earn a commission close to, or just over, eighty dollars a day—pretty good money in those days. After the first month, I found myself in direct competition with him and we ended up being the store’s dynamic duo—once exceeding twelve-hundred dollars each in sales on a very busy Saturday. Of course, because I was not putting in as many hours as the rest of the full-time salesmen, I was never able to match what the others were making. I just hoped it would be enough to cover my flight expenses.
Kaz was much happier working at the Mervyn’s cafeteria buffet than she’d ever been at Lungs. Soon she was not only keeping the buffet trays full but being a quick study and learning the price of each buffet item, she had been elevated to a part-time cashier.
It wasn’t long before we had saved enough money for me to begin my flight training.
Taking to the Skies
My first flying day started with a weather briefing commencing shortly after I entered the Aero Club at 11 AM, right at the beginning of my lunch period. The previous day, Sergeant Kent had given me a letter from the base commander granting me permission to “participate in any and all Bergstrom Aero Club activities, including active flight, during non-assigned work hours, as long as my dues were paid and remained a member in good standing”.
After receiving the weather briefing from the Austin Flight Service Station, via telephone, Marshall, my flight instructor and I, proceeded out to the flight line to conduct my first-ever pre-flight walk-around aircraft inspection.
I was assigned a yellow and white Cherokee Model 140, equipped with a 150-horsepower Lycoming four-cylinder engine; tail number N8461R. It was probably four or five years old, but it looked brand-new to me.
Prior to arriving at the Aero Club, I had been asked to bring along my copy of the Cherokee Model 140 flight manual—a sort of owners’ manual—as I was to refer to it as we visually checked the fuel level in each of the aircraft’s two-wing tanks; drew a sample of the fuel to ensure that it had not been contaminated with water and did not contain any type of residue; check the level and viscosity of the oil in the engine’s crankcase; visually check and physically pull on the belt attached to the spool on the oil pump; visually check and ensure solid connectivity of each magneto wire (spark plug wires), and look carefully at the engine looking for leaks or drips of any kind.
Next, I was taught to run my hands over the propeller to make sure it didn’t have any nicks or dings and to make sure it was solidly connected to the propeller shaft. From here we proceeded to the wings and manually moved the ailerons to ensure their travel was unimpeded and did the same thing at the tail section to the rudder and the elevators.
Finally, suppressing the urge to kick them, I was to make sure all three landing gear tires were inflated and pointed in the right direction. By the time I climbed up to the wing and squeezed myself into the port side (left) pilot’s seat I was sweating in spite of the cool weather.
I was instructed to close the door, but not lock it (one of the last items on the pre-takeoff checklist), and refer to the pre-start checklist prior to turning the ignition key.
There was a different checklist for everything—each one laminated and attached to a small steel ring, and once completed they were all to be stored in a small rectangular compartment located on the right side of my seat cushion. I was asked to also put my little owners’ manual in there this time because before our next flight I was expected to have all the pertinent information memorized, so I wouldn’t need it.
After engine start-up, I was briefed on what the rudders at my feet did (not much until we actually reached 35 or 40 mph), and the brakes, located on top of each rudder pedal and activated by pivoting the foot forward (learn to push on the brakes without also pushing on the rudders). Steering, after moving the aircraft by gently pushing in on a small plunger-like throttle with a red knob and accelerating the engine, was accomplished by pushing on the respective rudder pedal—when under flying speed right rudder turned the plane right and left rudder turned it left. I also had to suppress a desire to turn the yoke (steering wheel) since doing so had absolutely no effect on steering the plane on the ground.
After receiving clearance from the tower, Marshall instructed me to taxi the plane to what was called the “run-up area”, and I did so in a rather crazy zigzag manner. I recall that the word I uttered most on that first taxi was, “oops”.
While stopped at the run-up area, Marshall explained that while holding the aircraft steady by pushing and locking the brakes (push hard with the toes until they click), bring the engine up to 2000 RPM. Then I was to turn the ignition key two clicks to the left, shutting off one set of magnetos, then two clicks to the right. Next, turn the key one click to the left, shutting off the second set of magnetos. He pointed out that each time I shut off a set of magnetos the engine’s RPM decreased slightly. This was normal and was the expected result. I was then asked to pull the power lever back to achieve normal RPM.
After asking for and receiving clearance to taxi to the active runway and I pushed hard with my toes and unlocked the brakes, and the plane lurched forward. I zigzagged onto the runway. Within a few seconds, I heard the tower clear us for takeoff.
So, on Tuesday, August 13, 1968, at 11:28 am, I introduced power to the little engine up to 2500 RPM, and accelerated down runway 36 at Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas. The day was what pilots referred to as “severe clear”, with a light quartering breeze from the north, and the temperature was in the mid-eighties, extremely mild for central Texas at that time of the year. As the plane lurched into the bright blue sky at about sixty miles an hour, a feeling of exhilaration flooded my body. I would experience that same feeling from then on, every time I took to the air.
***
My first flight lasted just a few minutes less than one hour (.9 hours on the Hobbs meter). After takeoff, I was shown how to set the plane up for a climb then how to level off at altitude. The rest of the time was spent familiarizing me with the various instruments on the panel and how to use them to fly with the nose steady and the wings straight and level. Trust me, it was harder than it sounds.
I remember thinking how much work it was just to keep up with such a small plane. In spite of the cool air circulating the cockpit I was drenched in sweat, although I assume most of that could probably be attributed to a slight case of nerves.
After Marshall was satisfied that I could keep the plane reasonably level and on a steady heading, he directed me to what was described as the “training area”. This was a slice of airspace about 15 to 20 miles east of the airport where most potentially dangerous traversing air traffic was mostly non-existent. Once there, I was taught and practiced a few turns—learning to keep the nose above the horizon during the turn to maintain a steady altitude—as all aircraft tend to want to dive when one wing is lower than the other. “This,” the captain explained, “is known as a coordinated turn.”
Before I knew it, we were headed back to the airport to line up for a landing. By the time we’d taxied back to the Aero Club flight line and had gassed and secured the aircraft it was time for me to return to duty.
As we entered the club, Marshall asked if I was interested in flying again tomorrow. “I’d like to introduce you to multiple landings if you’d like.”
“Heck yes, I’ll be here,” I said, feeling a little flutter of excitement at the thought of going up again.
To be continued…
