When, next morning, I arrived at Squadron Six Beach, my instructor was waiting for me with orders to disregard the routine and feed the subject to me just as fast as I could take it. I had, however, been assigned to Class Twenty-six—youngsters, for the most part, two to three years out of Annapolis. Included in the class, however, were a handful of seniors like “Baldy” Pownall, “Woody” Thomas, Harry Bogusch, and Freddie Kauffman. For Admiral Moffett, having felt the need of a little seasoning in the aeronautic organization, had accepted applications from a selected group of more experienced line officers. Among them were former submarine officers who, thinking that duty a little too hazardous to health, had transferred to the comparative safety of flying. And thus began a most delightful experience. For the first time in many moons, my responsibilities were reduced to the lowest possible terms. All I now had to do was to maneuver a nice little airplane, one that seemed to sense my intentions and even anticipate them, and to execute turns, glides, and landings smoothly and competently and—to my surprise—without dunking me in the drink. The pullings and haulings of BUAERO, the plot and counterplot of politics, now faded into the limbo. And in their places came the thrill of facing hazards—and overcoming them. Raised as I had been in an era when men had not asked extra compensation for extra hazard in the line of duty, I held a secret hunch that a man should be glad to pay something extra for the privilege of enjoying such a happy and uncomplicated routine. Naturally I did not voice this mutiny to my instructors. With my solo safely behind me, I moved ahead with renewed confidence and from that day forward averaged nearly five hours solo almost every working day, passing one check after the other and moving steadily along on schedule. Meanwhile an unexpected influence had entered into my training, insinuating itself in a delicate sort of way; it was old Aunt Lucy. It had started one sunny morning when, standing in front of the mirror to tie my black four-in-hand tie, I had, in sheer exuberance, burst out singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Aunt Lucy, who seemed to be forever dusting the furniture when I was in the room, and who was always fingering my dress sword, as if fascinated by it, now interrupted my music. “Oh, no sah!” she protested. “Not dataway! Not dataway!” And then with one foot tapping and her gay turbaned old head bobbing to the rhythm, Aunt Lucy proceeded to swing that old chariot so low it got dizzy. The song ended, she cackled and waddled off down the corridor, but in response to my vociferous applause she was soon back again, dustcloth in hand, flicking specks off the battered furniture of the bare room.