Finally came November 30, 1926, and with it my final check. “Dixie” Ketcham, my check instructor, put me through the paces and then waved me back toward Old Corry Field. I was sitting there calmly enjoying the scenery below, but with one eye, as always, roving about in search of a place to land in case of engine failure, when the engine stopped. Below me lay a tiny cow pasture, the spot in which, no doubt, I was supposed to land. But it was so tiny I felt certain that Dixie would open the throttle again after I had demonstrated the required approach technique. And so I settled down to the “normal approach”: a left turn to get downwind, a glide over the tops of the jack pine, a slip to lose altitude, a sunfish to kill extra speed, stick-back to break the glide—but the throttle didn’t open and we went on in a nice landing. As we reached the end of the run, just short of the edge of the field—we had no brakes then, nor did we use flaps—Dixie waved a hand as the signal to go home. “If you can get into a pasture like that,” he said, “you can get in anywhere!” Back at my quarters in BOQ I walked on air. Aunt Lucy with her everlasting dustcloth fiddled around the gilt sword knot of the class of 1871 prize sword. And as she dusted it, she hummed the final verse of the spiritual she had sung so often for me. “I’se goin’ to lay down my burden— Down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside. I’se goin’ to lay down my burden, Down by the riverside. I ain’t a goin’ to study wah no moh!” Tossing my helmet and goggles onto the bed and reaching for my suitcase, I began packing my duffel for the return trip to Washington. Aunt Lucy was folding my best blue blouse with its shiny three stripes and, best of all, my new gold wings pinned on its breast. Under her breath she kept humming. “I ain’t a goin’ to study wah no mo!” I stopped to look at her. “Aunt Lucy,” I demanded, “is it by accident or design that you keep singing that song at me?” Aunt Lucy chuckled. “Well, sah,” she replied in her deep contralto, “ah thought maybe now you done learned to fly like de angels, you might like to think a little about peace.” “Why,” I retorted, “that’s just what a navy is for—to keep peace.” “Yassah, yassah,” Aunt Lucy persisted, fingering the gold pin on my best blouse, “but it jes’ seem to Aunt Lucy dat, now de Lord done gib yo’ wings, maybe yo’ might find better use for dem dan jes fightin’.” * * * * * The telephone jingled. Western Union had a wire for me. My wife was thrilled by the news of my gold wings; she had left for Washington to reopen the apartment. CHAPTER TEN The Take-off