The tower operator transmits, “Follow the blue lighted Taxiway and contact Ground Control on 123 point 7”

The engine has stopped the wooden chocks are in place and my instructor and I sit in the cockpit of the T-28 Trojan enjoying the quiet and the cool of the Georgia spring night. We are one of the last to land and taxi onto the large cement ramp filled with USAF training planes.

It’s been a successful cross-country night flight and we are both pleased with my progress. A month ago, I was closer to ‘washing out’ of pilot training than anyone else I know – 22 hours of dual instruction before I soloed in the much smaller Beech T-34 Mentor. That has got to be an Air Force record and at the time, one I was not proud of.

Earl Wederbrook is a quiet, philosophical man – the best instructor I could wish for.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

He’s looking at the taxiway lights and the moon casting silver shadows on the trainers lined up on the ramp.

“I’d love to do this for the rest of my life,” I say.

“Keep it up the way you did tonight and you will,” he says.


The cockpit is dark. The exhaust pipes crackle as they cool. Our ‘nest’ still smelling of sweat and heated paint on metal, will be empty until the maintenance crew does their post flight inspection. We climb out, keeping our philosophical silence as we lug our parachutes back to the flight shack. Here cigarettes glow then dim as the instructors and their students discuss tonight’s lesson.

We stow our ‘chutes.

“Let’s debrief tomorrow,” Earl says. “Want a ride back to the barracks?”

Last weekend, Earl has taught me how to drink ‘moonshine’. After I soloed, he took me home and brought out the ‘everclear’ – southern moonshine 100 proof alcohol.

“Now, first the lemon, then the salt, then one shot, straight down.”

After four or five, I stumble out to my Ford convertible and top down, make it back to the base before curfew.

I suspect Earl would rather be flying a high performance jet, or a even MATS transport than teaching cadets how to fly. But, he never mentions his ambitions or disappointments. I know he was an Air Force pilot, has a college degree and five or six kids. His wife is a hospitable woman with her hands full of kids. What she doesn’t know is that in two years she will be a widow. While returning from a crop dusting job in the next county, Earl decides to fly under some telephone wires. He doesn’t see that one is hanging down and it wraps around the prop of his Stearman. In his mid thirties, Earl has taken his final flight and has busted his check ride.

It’s after ‘lights out’ when I enter our room. Clint is making sleep noises as I pull back my sheets and stare at the ceiling. Clint has no worries about his progress and tonight, neither do I.

The tower operator transmits, “Follow the blue lighted Taxiway and contact Ground Control on 123 point 7”

The engine has stopped the wooden chocks are in place and my instructor and I sit in the cockpit of the T-28 Trojan enjoying the quiet and the cool of the Georgia spring night. We are one of the last to land and taxi onto the large cement ramp filled with USAF training planes.

It’s been a successful cross-country night flight and we are both pleased with my progress. A month ago, I was closer to ‘washing out’ of pilot training than anyone else I know – 22 hours of dual instruction before I soloed in the much smaller Beech T-34 Mentor. That has got to be an Air Force record and at the time, one I was not proud of.

Earl Wederbrook is a quiet, philosophical man – the best instructor I could wish for.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

He’s looking at the taxiway lights and the moon casting silver shadows on the trainers lined up on the ramp.

“I’d love to do this for the rest of my life,” I say.

“Keep it up the way you did tonight and you will,” he says.


The cockpit is dark. The exhaust pipes crackle as they cool. Our ‘nest’ still smelling of sweat and heated paint on metal, will be empty until the maintenance crew does their post flight inspection. We climb out, keeping our philosophical silence as we lug our parachutes back to the flight shack. Here cigarettes glow then dim as the instructors and their students discuss tonight’s lesson.

We stow our ‘chutes.

“Let’s debrief tomorrow,” Earl says. “Want a ride back to the barracks?”

Last weekend, Earl has taught me how to drink ‘moonshine’. After I soloed, he took me home and brought out the ‘everclear’ – southern moonshine 100 proof alcohol.

“Now, first the lemon, then the salt, then one shot, straight down.”

After four or five, I stumble out to my Ford convertible and top down, make it back to the base before curfew.

I suspect Earl would rather be flying a high performance jet, or a even MATS transport than teaching cadets how to fly. But, he never mentions his ambitions or disappointments. I know he was an Air Force pilot, has a college degree and five or six kids. His wife is a hospitable woman with her hands full of kids. What she doesn’t know is that in two years she will be a widow. While returning from a crop dusting job in the next county, Earl decides to fly under some telephone wires. He doesn’t see that one is hanging down and it wraps around the prop of his Stearman. In his mid thirties, Earl has taken his final flight and has busted his check ride.

It’s after ‘lights out’ when I enter our room. Clint is making sleep noises as I pull back my sheets and stare at the ceiling. Clint has no worries about his progress and tonight, neither do I.