My last chance had just gone down the drain. I was panicky. I started babbling. “Wait,” I said, “don’t write anything yet.”
He looked up at me, surprised.
“Doctor, you don’t understand. I haven’t slept all week. I’ve been taking care of my mother. My eyes are tired. I haven’t been well. My favorite uncle just died. It’s been horrible. You have to give me another chance.”
He was listening. But when he spoke, he said, “I’m afraid there’s no way you can—”
“Just one more chance.”
He could hear the desperation in my voice. He shook his head. “Well, we’ll try again tomorrow, but you’re wasting—”
“Oh, thank you,” I said quickly. “I’ll be here.”
I rushed back to my optometrist’s office.
“Thanks a lot,” I said bitterly. I told Dr. Peters what had happened.
“How long did you wear the glasses?” he asked.
“Twenty, thirty minutes.”
“You were only supposed to wear them for ten minutes.”
Now he tells me. “This is important to me,” I told him. “I have to do something.”
He sat back in his chair for a moment, thinking. “Did he darken the room when you read the chart?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He walked into a closet and came out holding an eye chart.
“Oh, that’s great,” I said. “I’ll memorize it and—”
“No. Different charts have different letters.”
“Then what’s the point of my—?”
“Here’s what you do. Practice on this chart. You squint the letters in. That will sharpen your vision. Keep working on it until you can read the two bottom lines. In the dark, he won’t see what you’re doing.”
I was skeptical. “Are you sure that—”
“That’s up to you. Good luck.”
I spent the whole evening squinting in the letters of the eye chart. It seemed to be working, but I wasn’t sure how I would do with Dr. Gale.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I was back at Dr. Gale’s office. When he saw me, he said, “I don’t know why we’re bothering. After yesterday—”
“Just let me try.”
He sighed. “Very well.”
We went back into the same room. He turned out the lights. “All right. Go ahead.” I sat in the chair and started squinting in the letters of the chart. Dr. Peters had been right. I could see the letters very clearly. I read everything, including the last line. The lights came on.
Dr. Gale was staring at me in astonishment. “I can’t believe it. I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. He went on. “You missed a few letters in the last two lines. You have twenty/twenty-two vision. Let’s see what the Air Corps has to say.” He signed the card and handed it to me.
The next morning I reported to an Army officer at the Federal Building. He looked at the card and said, “Twenty/twenty-two. That’s not bad, but we can’t train you to do combat flying. For that you need twenty/twenty vision.”
I was shocked. “You mean I can’t—”
“I’ll tell you what you can do. Have you ever heard of War Training Service?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a new branch of the Army Air Corps. It used to be called the Civil Air Patrol. In the War Training Service, they’ll train you to fly ferry planes to Europe or to be a flight instructor. But no combat flying. Would you like to be in that?”
“Yes, sir.” I was going to be an Air Corps pilot after all.
“Since you’re not going to be in the regular Air Corps, you have to supply your own uniform. You’ll get a cadet’s pay and a place to live. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your flight training will be at Richfield, Utah. You’ll report there a week from Monday.”
I had never been so excited.
Natalie came to town with her husband and Richard and I finally got to meet Marty. He was short, gray-haired, and heavyset, with a friendly face. I liked him immediately. We all had dinner together, and I brought Natalie and Marty up-to-date on what was happening.
“So you’re going to need a uniform,” Marty said. “Let’s go shopping.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Since there was no regulation regarding our uniforms, Marty took me to an Army-Navy store and bought me beautifully tailored officer’s uniforms, and a leather flying jacket. I bought a white scarf to wear around my neck, so I could look as much like a flying ace as possible.
I was ready to help America win the war.
CHAPTER 12
Richfield, Utah, was a small town with a population of sixty-five hundred, surrounded by the Monroe Mountains. There was a pleasant hotel on the main street. Following instructions, we cadets checked into our rooms and then returned to the lobby. There were fourteen of us. We had been in the lobby for thirty minutes when a tall, craggy-faced man in uniform walked in. He looked us over.
“Has everyone checked in?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m Captain Anderson, your chief instructor. This hotel is fifteen minutes from the airport. A bus will pick you up at six o’clock every morning. Get a good night’s sleep. You’re going to need it.”
And he left.
The following morning we were picked up by an Army bus and driven to the airfield. It was much smaller than I had expected.