The date was Dec. 23, 1943 — I was 21 years old. I was in the rear cockpit of a Fairchild PT-19 primary trainer with a total dual time to date of 10 hours. My instructor was in the front cockpit. The wide-open grass landing strip of Cimarron Field Primary Flight School in Oklahoma was dead ahead. The instructor waved at me to make a landing. I did everything right and made the prettiest three-point landing I had ever made. The instructor said, “Take off, circle the field and make another landing. If the next landing is as good as this one, tomorrow you’ll make your first solo flight.” Everything went well. The second landing was just like the first. “Meet me in the hangar at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning and we’ll get that first solo flight under your belt,” the instructor said.
The next morning everything was set for that first solo flight. During the night it had snowed, and everything was covered with 3 inches of the white powdery stuff. The ground crew had cleaned the snow off the PT-19, topped off the gas tanks and performed the usual engine warm-up.
