It was in the food, in our beds, and over us most of the
time. We arrived here on June 23, 1943 and were going to be checked
out in the P-39 airplane. This plane was the one used in the early
part of the war in the Pacific and had become obsolete. They were
shipped back to the U.S. to be used for training pilots as all the
new planes were going to the war zones.
The P-39 was a lot more airplane than any of us had ever flown before
and with only one seat, we would have to fly it alone. The instructor
took a group of us out to the plane and let each of us look in the
cockpit while he explained how to start it and the different
instruments. After about one hour's instruction, he asked for a
volunteer to go first. Somebody volunteered and taxied out to the
runway. He went down the runway and started up in the air. About 200
feet up the plane went straight down to crash in a ball of flame. We
went over to another plane and the instructor asked Who's next?" We
used another runway and I was the third one to go. This was our first
experience of losing a pilot and really made us all stop and think.
When I took off I flew straight for a long time before I dared to try
a turn. You just moved the stick a fraction of an inch and you were
upside down. It was extra sensitive after the trainers which had
almost needed two hands to move the stick. I didn't do any fancy
stuff and was relieved to be on the ground again after making a
fairly good landing.
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