Free Fly Boy by Eric Walters Page B

marks on all examinations focused on mathematics, navigation, and orientation.”
    I did know that. I was proud of that.
    “We felt that the tests designed to measure the achievement and knowledge expected of recruits at your level of experience and training were not gauging your true potential. So we decided to alter your test. Did you notice that the mathematical formulas necessary to determine navigational goals were omitted from your paper?”
    “Yes, sir. I just assumed they were omitted from all tests, since it is important to have those formulas committed to memory.”
    “Most of the navigators now engaged in theatres of combat don’t have those formulas memorized,” he said. “They have cheat sheets to help them along.”
    “I figured in the heat of battle, it would be better to just know the formulas and how to apply them.”
    “And can you do that? Just write them down and apply them?”
    “I can write them down, but I don’t need to. I do the calculations in my head.”
    “You did the calculations for this test in your head?” he asked. He sounded very skeptical.
    “Well … yes … yes, sir.”
    “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. “I want you to know that your instructor not only omitted those formulas, he also asked you to apply factors such as wind speed and payload weights. Were you surprised or confused by that?”
    “A little surprised, sir, since we hadn’t studied those things, but not confused.”
    “Why not?”
    “I had done a little extra reading,” I admitted. “But really, it’s just common sense.”
    “It’s far from common!” he exclaimed. “And we tested you further by asking you to plot your final destination through a multi-course route with mid-air corrections for an exact arrival time.”
    It had been a hard test. It was the first time I’d doubted myself, wondering if I had the right answers.
    “Would you like to know how you did?”
    I nodded.
    “I have that test right here,” he said, tapping his finger against a paper on his desk. He picked it up and handed it to me. Across the top in red pen it read 100/100!
    “Those questions that you answered were taken directly from the final exams given to navigators before they are assigned to a flight crew, and you achieved a perfect score! That is an incredible accomplishment.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Son, what you’re accomplishing is very admirable, but not surprising.”
    He reached down and removed another piece of paper from the folder on his desk. I caught a glance and recognized the letter he was holding. It was the letter I’d written on school stationery, the one I’d given to Chip to mail for me from school.
    “Your former headmaster, Mr. Beamish, described you in superlatives. He had nothing but praise for you, as a student and a person.”
    “That’s good to hear, sir.”
    “He writes that you graduated at the top of your class, were student president, a class leader … Very commendable.”
    Maybe I had laid it on a bit thick. If he knew who wrote that letter, he’d have a very different opinion of me at this moment.
    “He also mentioned that you want to be a pilot.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Your father was a pilot.”
    “My father is a pilot, sir.”
    He looked confused. “Wasn’t he shot down … He is a prisoner of war, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, sir, he was shot down and he is a prisoner of war, but he still is a pilot.”
    “Ah, yes … of course … I meant no offence,” he apologized.
    “No offence taken, sir.”
    “Your instructors have every confidence, and I agree, that you have the skills and aptitude to become a bomb aimer, a fl ight engineer, a pilot, or a navigator.”
    “I hope to become a pilot, sir.”
    “I know, son, following in the footsteps of your old man … Very admirable. I think we all know that you could be a pilot.”
    “That’s why I’m here, sir.”
    “And that’s what makes this so hard for me to tell you.” He paused and looked up at me.