We landed in Omaha, checked into a hotel and set out
to look for the nearest nightclub. We had a steak dinner and the meat
in the stockyard district was totally different from anything in the
East. The steak was about two inches thick and you could cut it with
a fork. As soon as we found some girls, we stacked all our guns on
the table and danced the evening away.
The next morning we left Omaha by train for Ainsworth, Nebraska. It
turned out to be a little place about the size of Cheshire out in the
middle of nowhere. The only one there to take care of the place was
an old man wearing a beard. The four old planes were parked there and
we didn't even know if we could get them started. To make a
correction, the fourth pilot was not Bruce, but another fellow who
was from Hastings, Neb. which was in the southern part of the state.
We planned to fly down there and land at the nearest airport. We got
the planes going and the old man wanted us to buzz the field before
leaving, as a farewell. We took off, gained altitude, then dove down
right at the building and the old man. We pulled up just as we passed
over him and Neil Just missed the roof by inches. I found that the
plane that I was flying had bad controls and you had to hold the
stick way over to the left of the cockpit in order to keep the plane
level.
We flew down to Hastings, Nebraska and stayed the night with the
other pilot at his parents' house.
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