"That student is dangerous. You're crazy if you fly with him again," I
harangued my friend, Brooks Wilson.
"Don't be that way," Brooks answered. "He's not dangerous. He's goofy."
"That's why he's dangerous," I countered. "You tell me that he froze the
controls in a panic today and you lost a thousand feet of altitude
before you were able to get the ship away from him. The next time you
may not have a thousand feet."
"I won't need a thousand feet the next time," Brooks argued. "I wrestled
the controls away from him today, but the next time he grabs them like
that, I'll just beat him over the head with the fire extinguisher and
knock him out."
"If you are high enough to do that, you won't be in any danger," I
pointed out. "And if you are low enough to be in danger when he freezes,
you won't have time to knock him out."
Brooks and I were both very young army instructors, and Brooks was
stubborn with the confidence of youth. He only growled, "Don't be a
sissy all your life. I can handle this guy."
The next day a solo student spun in, in a field of corn beside the
airport. Brooks had just landed with his goofy student and was crawling
out of his cockpit when he saw the ship hit. He jumped back into his
cockpit, gave his still idling motor the gun and took off, his goofy
student still in the rear seat.
He flew over the wreck, circled it, dove on it, pulled up, wing-it, dove
on it, pulled up, wing-overed, and dove on it again. He was a beautiful
pilot. He was pointing out to the ambulance where the wreck was in the
tall corn. He pulled up and started another wing-over, flipped suddenly
over on his back, and spun in right beside the wreck.
When they pulled Brooks out of his wreck he was unconscious but was
muttering over and over again in his Southern vernacular, "Turn 'em
loose. Turn 'em loose. Turn 'em loose before we crash."
The goofy student was hardly even scratched. Brooks died that night.