Why are such machines necessary, a schoolchild might well ask? I would answer that having such weapons ready is the best way to make sure they will n… - Robert Lee Scott Jr.

As these words are being written, I am in the process of moving back to Georgia. Whatever the merits of Horace Greeley's advice, I have to paraphrase Walt Whitman and say that the farther west I have gone, the worse I have felt. It took me years to catch on. Then one day I flew east to the Museum of Flight and heard a fine lady by the name of Peggy Young tell me what it was, and I was hooked; I had found my ultimate purpose in life. I am now back in the Cherokee rose state to stay, near my hometown of Macon where- so many years ago- I jumped off the roof of the tallest house in town in a homemade glider.
The Museum of Aviation only came into my life recently; it was not many years ago that I lacked the sense of purpose and satisfaction that it brings me. After coming home from China, victorious over my dual obsessions, I went through the worst period of my life, and found out how very much I needed goals. Big ones, too, because I never did learn how to do anything at less than full throttle.

One Sunday, I was carrying out my training in a reveries, my imagination running wild as I gunned my machine into a tight turn, dipping low to compensate for centrifugal force. Suddenly over the din of the exhaust there came the frantic scream of a frightened horse. I hurriedly braked and watched the terrified animal plunge down the side of the mountain, then across the stream and into the trees on the other side. It was obviously a U.S. Cavalry mount. Between calling soothing words to his animal, the uniformed rider shouted for me to cut my engine. I almost fell off the motorcycle when I realized it was Colonel Robert C. Richardson, the commandant of cadets.
Fumbling to still my raving engine, I leaped from the machine, praying out loud that the "Com" could regain control before both he and his horse were killed. All my plans for a commission as a second lieutenant seemed to hang in the balance, but I dismissed these selfish thoughts and raced down the mountain, determined to reach the Com in time to be of some aid.

I tried to kill the plane, not people. We heard that the Japanese shot our parachuting pilots, but I never saw that. We never shot a pilot who had bailed out. Sometimes you would fly near them and they would salute you. As for the planes, it varied. For a fighter, you fired where the wing joined the fuselage. For the bombers, you went for the engines. You didn’t want to get too close because the wounded plane would spew engine oil all over your plane.