“David! Take out the trash now; we have to leave!” As usual, my mom had to push me to complete what felt like an endless list of chores. The list wasn’t long by any means but my loafing certainly did me no favors. Grudgingly, I emptied the last dustbin into the trash bag and lugged it outside. But as I neared the dumpster, I felt a low rumble grow in the air. Just as I whipped my head around, a roaring four-engined beast of an airplane zoomed overhead so close that I could recognize the glistening machine guns hanging from Plexiglass window mounts. Entranced, my eyes followed the airplane as it banked away into the afternoon sky. I was absolutely awestruck watching a machine fly so gracefully and yet exude such toughness and power.
To me, the airplane I had just witnessed was the stuff of history books, museums, and the Military Channel. I frantically ran back inside. “Mommy! Mommy! A B-17 just flew over and we have to go to the airport to see if it lands there!” She reminded me of our plans for Wednesday night supper at church, but that maybe our neighbor and local pilot Mr. Don would know something about it. My restlessness grew stronger after Mr. Don told us over dinner that some World War II airplanes were stopping in on tour. I begged and begged him and my mother to skip our obligations and head for the local airport.
Rounding the last corner to the Madison County Airport near Huntsville Alabama, I spotted them poised on the ramp: an olive drab B-17 Flying Fortress and a dark green B-24 Liberator. We paid the admission fee and I explored these two airplanes inside and out until my mom had to drag me home as the sun set.
Being homeschooled, I was allowed flexibility with my assignments that week and ended up spending every day of the visit with the crews and the airplanes. The advertised thirty-minute ride of $400 was well outside my ten-year-old budget but my incessant pestering was enough to convince my dad to book a ride for us in the B-17 on the last flight of the visit.
That afternoon, the airport was a scene of activity—bustling crowds, rumbling radials, whirling propellers, and the distinct aroma of old greasy airplanes pounded at my senses. With tickets in hand, my dad and I followed the crew chief to the rear door of the B-17 through the intense propeller wash of the two idling right engines. We clambered in and made our way forward to the cockpit where we buckled into waist belts which were fastened to the floor. Even through my earplugs, the four Wright-Cyclone radial engines were deafeningly powerful. I watched intently as the pilots lined the ship up with centerline of the runway then, with a push of their throttles, released the full might of almost five thousand horsepower. We leapt into the air with a surprising vigor for an airplane that moved like a lumbering beast on the ground.
The crew chief crawled up from the nose position and motioned for us to unbuckle. It was only after I stood up and looked around that the reality of it all struck me. Ahead of me, the pilot and copilot busily made their after-takeoff and cruise checks just as they were done sixty years earlier. Behind me, an elderly lady wept over the right-side waist machine gun where her father had been killed while defending his bomber. Just below in the nose, the famed Norden bombsight beckoned for a look through its once top-secret scope. For a ten-year-old, this antique airplane of aluminum, steel, oil, and avgas brought to me a flood of emotions—patriotism, history, and a fierce desire to fly.
There was no question that I wanted to serve in the military and that I wanted to fly. But even more than I wished to fly private and military airplanes, I wanted to fly these war machines of the past. My fascination with the Second World War, as well as the men and machines who fought in it, grew with fervor. My interests thoroughly surrounded flying and military history, whether it was an occasional ride with Mr. Don, flying my RC models, or reading book after book into (and sometimes past) the wee hours of the morning, straining my eyes against my mother’s wishes.
The B-17 and B-24 pair visited again the following year and during that same time I learned of an opportunity to join the Civil Air Patrol (CAP). Mr. Don was teaching me how to read instruments, sectional charts, and the E-6B flight computer. The Styrofoam of my model airplanes became worn out, not from misuse but rather from so much flying. Aviation was king.
My dad’s work at Gulfstream Aerospace took us from Huntsville, Alabama to Savannah, Georgia. I could no longer fly with Mr. Don and the sea of pine trees made it difficult to fly model airplanes. I yearned for Rocket City but I still involved myself with aviation in every way that I could. Volunteering at the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum put me in contact with the few remaining World War II veterans who worked there. My Saturdays were spent soaking in their stories and helping with the Mission Experience Exhibit. I jumped at every flight opportunity the CAP provided through its occasional helicopter rides and Orientation Flights.
Nearing my sixteenth birthday, I knew I would soon be of the legal age to solo. The Private Pilot’s Certificate was pretty high on my priority list and, thankfully, through CAP, I was eligible to attend the Southwest Region Summer Flight Academy. This ten-day crash course in Oklahoma offered ten hours of training at a bargain rate with the possibility of a solo at the end. My persistence convinced my parents to let me go. Somehow, my instructor saw me fit to solo and I flew one lap around the patch by myself at Shawnee Regional Airport on 7 July 2010. Going home, I dreamed of completing my Private Certificate and winging around on a whim but my funds or lack thereof put that idea firmly to rest.
With two years of college under my belt, the opportunity for an internship at Gulfstream Aerospace became available. I jumped at the chance and figured I would make just enough that summer to earn my private on a budget. Against my dad’s recommendation for me to save my hard-earned cash, I called the local flight school and set up a time to look at the airplanes and meet the instructors. Forty-one days later, I had my temporary airman’s certificate in hand after passing an only mildly terrifying check ride.
After taking my family and a few friends who were willing to chip in for rides, I saw my flying days coming to a close once again. Around this time, I transferred to Georgia Tech in Atlanta where I started classes in Aerospace Engineering and the Air Force ROTC. To my delight, I discovered Georgia Tech had an active flying club, The Yellow Jacket Flying Club (YJFC), which owned four Cessna 172s. I joined at the first meeting of the semester. My remaining earnings from that summer paid for my club dues and checkout flight.
The next three years of school not only consisted of studying but also dreaming up every possible scheme I could come up with to convince my friends to go flying with me. Split four ways, an evening flight to a nearby fly-in restaurant wasn’t actually that expensive at all! Every flight was an adventure and thankfully, there are plenty of destinations within an hour’s flight of Atlanta to keep a weekend pilot busy for a very long time.
My involvement with the YJFC grew quickly and opportunities to fly interesting airplanes and meet cool people abounded. It only took a little effort and some nerve to cold call people, introduce myself on behalf of the club, and establish a relationship. We had some very interesting and important speakers at club events, thanks to our efforts, which gave us aviating eager beavers opportunities we would have never dreamed of. We went from strictly Cessna flying to rides in helicopters, Cubs, gliders, the Goodyear Blimp, and even a fighter jet trainer ride for a buddy of mine! With all this activity, club membership grew and the flying got better and better!
My friends and I did so much flying during the school years that we had little time for much else in the social arena. Before long, several of us had enough experience and cross-country time to earn our instrument ratings. With another summer job, I financed my instrument rating in July of 2016. A friend and I flew to Oshkosh a week after the check ride and the pages of our log books kept filling up. I was “time building” but had so much fun that I barely noticed!
Approaching my last semester of school, I realized I had enough flying time to earn my commercial and flight instructor certificates but the money just wasn’t there. Despite being a young student, a loan opportunity made itself available through ROTC with very good terms. I jumped at the chance. By March 2017, I had my commercial and CFI certificates in hand.
A few weeks later, I took my first ride in a small tailwheel airplane, a ratty old Cessna 140. Our club had taken a trip over to a private strip near Augusta, Georgia to visit a prominent airshow pilot and former YJFC member, Gary Ward. He offered to sell me that airplane for $12,000 and that got my mental hamster wheels spinning. All of a sudden, I didn't just want one of these airplanes, I needed one!
To me, the airplane I had just witnessed was the stuff of history books, museums, and the Military Channel. I frantically ran back inside. “Mommy! Mommy! A B-17 just flew over and we have to go to the airport to see if it lands there!” She reminded me of our plans for Wednesday night supper at church, but that maybe our neighbor and local pilot Mr. Don would know something about it. My restlessness grew stronger after Mr. Don told us over dinner that some World War II airplanes were stopping in on tour. I begged and begged him and my mother to skip our obligations and head for the local airport.
Rounding the last corner to the Madison County Airport near Huntsville Alabama, I spotted them poised on the ramp: an olive drab B-17 Flying Fortress and a dark green B-24 Liberator. We paid the admission fee and I explored these two airplanes inside and out until my mom had to drag me home as the sun set.
 |
| "909" - The Collings Foundation's Boeing B-17G |
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| The B-24 Liberator and Me |
The crew chief crawled up from the nose position and motioned for us to unbuckle. It was only after I stood up and looked around that the reality of it all struck me. Ahead of me, the pilot and copilot busily made their after-takeoff and cruise checks just as they were done sixty years earlier. Behind me, an elderly lady wept over the right-side waist machine gun where her father had been killed while defending his bomber. Just below in the nose, the famed Norden bombsight beckoned for a look through its once top-secret scope. For a ten-year-old, this antique airplane of aluminum, steel, oil, and avgas brought to me a flood of emotions—patriotism, history, and a fierce desire to fly.
There was no question that I wanted to serve in the military and that I wanted to fly. But even more than I wished to fly private and military airplanes, I wanted to fly these war machines of the past. My fascination with the Second World War, as well as the men and machines who fought in it, grew with fervor. My interests thoroughly surrounded flying and military history, whether it was an occasional ride with Mr. Don, flying my RC models, or reading book after book into (and sometimes past) the wee hours of the morning, straining my eyes against my mother’s wishes.
The B-17 and B-24 pair visited again the following year and during that same time I learned of an opportunity to join the Civil Air Patrol (CAP). Mr. Don was teaching me how to read instruments, sectional charts, and the E-6B flight computer. The Styrofoam of my model airplanes became worn out, not from misuse but rather from so much flying. Aviation was king.
My dad’s work at Gulfstream Aerospace took us from Huntsville, Alabama to Savannah, Georgia. I could no longer fly with Mr. Don and the sea of pine trees made it difficult to fly model airplanes. I yearned for Rocket City but I still involved myself with aviation in every way that I could. Volunteering at the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum put me in contact with the few remaining World War II veterans who worked there. My Saturdays were spent soaking in their stories and helping with the Mission Experience Exhibit. I jumped at every flight opportunity the CAP provided through its occasional helicopter rides and Orientation Flights.
Nearing my sixteenth birthday, I knew I would soon be of the legal age to solo. The Private Pilot’s Certificate was pretty high on my priority list and, thankfully, through CAP, I was eligible to attend the Southwest Region Summer Flight Academy. This ten-day crash course in Oklahoma offered ten hours of training at a bargain rate with the possibility of a solo at the end. My persistence convinced my parents to let me go. Somehow, my instructor saw me fit to solo and I flew one lap around the patch by myself at Shawnee Regional Airport on 7 July 2010. Going home, I dreamed of completing my Private Certificate and winging around on a whim but my funds or lack thereof put that idea firmly to rest.
 |
| First Solo! |
After taking my family and a few friends who were willing to chip in for rides, I saw my flying days coming to a close once again. Around this time, I transferred to Georgia Tech in Atlanta where I started classes in Aerospace Engineering and the Air Force ROTC. To my delight, I discovered Georgia Tech had an active flying club, The Yellow Jacket Flying Club (YJFC), which owned four Cessna 172s. I joined at the first meeting of the semester. My remaining earnings from that summer paid for my club dues and checkout flight.
The next three years of school not only consisted of studying but also dreaming up every possible scheme I could come up with to convince my friends to go flying with me. Split four ways, an evening flight to a nearby fly-in restaurant wasn’t actually that expensive at all! Every flight was an adventure and thankfully, there are plenty of destinations within an hour’s flight of Atlanta to keep a weekend pilot busy for a very long time.
My involvement with the YJFC grew quickly and opportunities to fly interesting airplanes and meet cool people abounded. It only took a little effort and some nerve to cold call people, introduce myself on behalf of the club, and establish a relationship. We had some very interesting and important speakers at club events, thanks to our efforts, which gave us aviating eager beavers opportunities we would have never dreamed of. We went from strictly Cessna flying to rides in helicopters, Cubs, gliders, the Goodyear Blimp, and even a fighter jet trainer ride for a buddy of mine! With all this activity, club membership grew and the flying got better and better!
 |
| Dan Schmeidt and the Clemson Stearman |
Approaching my last semester of school, I realized I had enough flying time to earn my commercial and flight instructor certificates but the money just wasn’t there. Despite being a young student, a loan opportunity made itself available through ROTC with very good terms. I jumped at the chance. By March 2017, I had my commercial and CFI certificates in hand.
A few weeks later, I took my first ride in a small tailwheel airplane, a ratty old Cessna 140. Our club had taken a trip over to a private strip near Augusta, Georgia to visit a prominent airshow pilot and former YJFC member, Gary Ward. He offered to sell me that airplane for $12,000 and that got my mental hamster wheels spinning. All of a sudden, I didn't just want one of these airplanes, I needed one!
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