“Everyone who would listen,” I replied. “And Frank Russell, of Curtiss, is coming in this afternoon. I thought that since you had taken his SC design away from him by underbidding him on the production order, he might find a certain satisfaction in doing likewise by you.” By the time I had finished the sentence, Glenn had disappeared through the door. With the carrier program pretty well rounded up, I began to think of going back to sea duty and general service. If I wasted much more time in the side shows, some future Selection Board would gladly skip me over. No use to ask the admiral’s permission; he’d say the job was but half done and he couldn’t spare me. A personal visit to the Bureau of Navigation and a request to command another destroyer would do the trick. But when, shortly afterward, Admiral Moffett called me into his office, I found the atmosphere distinctly chilly. On his desk lay the notice from BUNAV advising him of the intention to detach me and requesting that he nominate a suitable relief. “What will it take to keep you here?” the admiral asked. “A nonflying officer has no place in this game,” I replied, “and I’m supposed to be too old to learn to fly.” “The pilot course,” replied the admiral, “takes nine months and I can’t spare you that long.” I had not intended to ask for flight training but the admiral assumed that I was putting pressure on him. “I could send you to Pensacola for two months for training as Naval Observer,” he went on, “and that might take the curse off shore duty by making you a part of the aeronautic organization.” My next remark surprised me; certainly it came from my mouth rather than my head, though my heart may have been in it. “If I could wangle a way to complete the pilot’s course in two months,” I inquired, “would that be acceptable to you?” The admiral grinned as he held out his hand. “When you arrive at Pensacola,” he advised, “drop in on Brooks Upham, the Commandant. He’s a personal friend of mine and might be able to do something for you.” Thus quite without prior intent on my part I had talked my way even deeper into aviation. But at home that evening I did not reveal the whole scheme to my wife. Having received word of her mother’s serious illness she had left the day before for an indefinite visit at her home. CHAPTER NINE The Gospel According to Aunt Lucy Rear Adm. F. Brooks Upham, Commandant of the Naval Air Station, Pensacola, reached across his flat-topped desk for my formal orders. Behind him through the window, the sun glinted on the leaves of ancient live oaks, and filtered through shreds of gently swaying Spanish moss. The rattle of aircraft engines disturbed the still morning, a signal that flying was being resumed after the September hurricane that had seriously damaged this ancient Civil War navy yard. The admiral welcomed me with a friendly smile.