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at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, beginning 15 months of training on how to be a pilot and officer. The three basic parts of the program were military training, academics, and flying. The military training came easy: I already knew how to march, stand at attention, and pass inspection. Then came three months of books. Finally we got to the fun part: flying. As a kid I was a good athlete. Throwing, batting, kicking, running all came easily. I felt that flying would be the same. But there was one problem: I am left-handed.
    My flight instructor at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas, was Lieutenant Luellan. Our training aircraft progressed from basic to advanced: L-21 to T-6 to T-28 to T-33. The
L-21 was a little two-seat tandem Piper Cub. It was a tail dragger: the main gear under the wings and the third wheel under the tail. (L-21 was its military name; all civilian aviators know it as the “Super Cub.”) Its 125-horsepower engine hurled you along at least 100 mph.
    When the day for my first flight finally came, Lieutenant Luellan told me to grab my parachute and follow him. We walked across the ramp to the flying machine, where he said, “Follow me and watch what I check on the walk around.” After some explanation of what was important besides the fuel and oil levels, he said, “Okay Thorsness, you fly from the front seat—try it on.”
    With eagerness and a bit of apprehension I climbed in, cramming my own bulk and that of my parachute into the tiny cockpit. The lieutenant continued, “Get your feet down there on the rudders, lock your shoulder harness into your seat belt and snug them both down.” His next instruction was, “In the middle there, sticking up between your legs, is the control stick.” I confidently grabbed the control stick—with my left hand, of course. I quickly scanned the few instruments on the control panel and glanced back over my right shoulder where Lieutenant Luellan was watching. With obvious disbelief, he said, “The throttle is over there on the left side panel.” I looked at my grip on the control stick, looked over to the left side and saw the little lever with a knob on top. It was obvious that the throttle was important and would have to be continuously held while flying. So I did what was logical: reached with my right hand across my left hand and forearm that was holding the control stick and gripped the throttle. I instantly knew that this was not a good way to impress a flight instructor. The lieutenant simply shook his head as he walked away after staring for a moment at my crossed arms.
    In the memory box I searched while being held captive in the mountains of North Vietnam, I found something I’d almost forgotten about: a near fatal mistake when I had progressed to the more advanced T-6 “Texan” trainer. It also happened at Goodfellow. I was flying solo and entered the downwind leg—parallel to the runway about a mile away, heading due south at 1,000 feet above
the ground and at about 100 knots (115 mph). When I was about half a mile past the end of the runway, I made a 90-degree turn to the east. I felt I was doing well—beginning to lose an appropriate amount of altitude and slow the aircraft.
    A good checkpoint, in addition to the runway, was the Goodfellow football field near the end of the runway, and just slightly to the east. I didn’t realize until I was nearly through my 90-degree turn onto final approach that the wind was blowing me a good bit off course. Panicking, I realized I would overshoot and be more lined up with the football field than the runway.
    Two of the best bits of aviation advice I remember receiving in flying school came from a crusty old aviator, Captain Malone (“crusty old” at that stage of my life meant that he was 27), who told me, “There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots.” He added, “Never exceed your