By William Culbreth

On a Friday morning, Bob Aldrich, an 87-year-old resident of Rancho Carlsbad in Carlsbad, awoke early. He had been restless all night. Three days before, he had been released from Scripps Hospital and he was still feeling the results of his brief bout with pneumonia. But that was not the cause of his early rising. It was the anticipation of the day ahead.

Months before, he had seen an ad by American Warbirds for flights in an AT-6,

the aircraft he flew so many months in 1943 through 1945. He had made all the arrangements, mailed in the deposit, signed the liability releases and scheduled the time and place, paving the way to this beautiful clear day in early April, 2008.  Late morning found him on the tarmac at Gillespie Field in El Cajon, approaching a shiny, polished aircraft with dragon’s breath flames emerging from the cowling.  It had the familiar shape and silhouette of the workhorse of WWII that had been clad in mottled grey paint and adorned with the bold American Star.

As Bob—wearing a bright blue windbreaker and a sky blue ball cap that contrasted with the brown leather flight jacket and the crumpled flight hat of earlier days—approached the aircraft, his mind went through the checklist that had been hidden away in the far reaches of his longterm memory. Tires, landing gear, ailerons, rudder, elevators, pitot tube—they all were in order.

Climbing aboard was not the jaunty maneuver he remembered. For the three years when this machine was his office, his work station, his reason for being, he sat in that rear seat; his student sat in the front seat. For three years, every month, he would get five new students. The students had completed their basic ground training and basic flight training and were at Craig Field in Selma, Ala., for advanced flight training.

For one hour every day, they had to learn and to demonstrate that they had learned the skills that were needed to be a US Army Air Corps pilot. Yes, they had more classroom and ground schooling the rest of the day, but it was here in Bob’s front seat where they earned their wings or failed to earn their wings. It was his decision to pin on the wings that would transform the cadet to pilot. After earning their wings from Bob, they would go on to train in fighters, bombers, recon or cargo planes, tankers or whatever assignment the Army Air Corps needed.

On this day in 2008, pushing back the canopy from the front seat, Bob accepted assistance to get his legs over the threshold and into the seat. A female with a long pony tail hanging from the rear of the baseball cap reached over his shoulder to secure the parachute and pulled the various straps taut.

She placed the bulky headphone with built-in microphone over his cap, and he adjusted his aviator glasses for comfort. She adjusted the microphone tight against his lips. The pilot in the rear seat asked if he was ready to go. Bob signaled a big thumbs-up and a resounding “Let’s go!”

The engine began with a labored groan, followed by a forceful roar. Instinctively Bob’s feet reached for the brakes to hold the plane stationary while the pilot went through the preflight checklist. Quickly, the plane pulled onto the taxi way and began the trip to the end of the runway. The AT-6 is a tail-dragger, and the pilots can’t see straight ahead when taxiing, so the route is a series of “S” turns, with the pilot looking first out of one side and then out of the other.

At the end of the taxi strip, the plane turned onto the end of the runway, facing into the wind. Brakes were applied, the engine was revved to full throttle, all systems were “Go.” The aircraft began its acceleration, air rushed past the canopy, the torque of the 550 hp Pratt-Whitney nine-cylinder engine pulled the plane to one side, and rudder was applied to keep the plane straight.

Bob’s hands were on the yoke, where he felt the pilot pushing it forward to engage the elevators to lift the tail off the ground. Reaching air speed, the yoke was pulled back, magically lifting the entire plane into the air, beginning its rapid ascent. A voice from the back seat instructed Bob to reach down beside his right calf and pull the lever to raise the landing gear. It is a mechanical lever with gears, cables and pulleys that manually raise and lower the landing gear.

Reaching cruising altitude, the two men began executing all the basic maneuvers: straight and level, climbing, descending lazy turns, tight turns, figure eights. Bob reflected on the 250 students who had earned their wings under his tutelage.

Throughout this day’s flight, Bob was bombarded with questions from the pilot, who recognized that Bob had many more flight hours in this plane than he would ever have. He wanted to learn all he could from the master.

The pilot asked Bob if he would like to try some more exciting moves. Bob was game for it all. The pilot said he would take it up to 8,200 feet and try something. Bob could feel the reduction in air speed as the plane went into a steep climb from 5,000 feet to 8,200 feet.

Leveling out at 8,200 feet and going into straight and level flight, the pilot told Bob to prepare for a snap roll. This roll was executed by snapping the ailerons to an extreme position, causing the plane to rapidly roll over on its side, then upside down, then on to the other side and then back to straight and level. Bob had executed this move hundreds of times, and every time there was a huge rush of adrenaline. This time was no exception. Despite his 87 years, Bob felt the thrill and exhilaration, just as he had in his youth.

The slow descent to Gillespie Field was anti-climactic, but was a time of reflection on his role and the purpose of his time in the service of his country so long ago. He also reflected on the first-hand hands–on knowledge and experience of the transition from propeller-driven to jet-propelled aircraft.

His firm conviction was that he had served his country and his fellow man well. Not only that but he got to play with a really big toy at the age of 87. Go, Bob.