“You’re mighty impudent for a young one, Bob, my lad,” said Pat. “Just because you’ve made a solo flight doesn’t mean that you’re wings are dry yet. You might know that any story I’d tell would be good.”
“Oh, Patrick, you’ll have to prove that,” said the Captain. “I’ve heard some pretty awful ones from you. Haven’t I?”
“It must have been two other fellows,” said Pat. “But I’ll begin. And I won’t take so long, either. I’m not one of these long winded story tellers,” he said significantly.
“Get on, get on.” This from Captain Bill.
“My two boys are the speedy two, all right,” began Pat. “Speed was their middle name. Their real names were—well, you probably have guessed. It’s not a secret—Frank Hawks and Jimmie Doolittle. Beg pardon, maybe I had better say Lieutenant Commander Frank Hawks of the United States Naval Reserve, the holder of some 30 inter-city aviation records, etcetera, etcetera; and maybe it would be more proper to talk about James Doolittle, M.S.; D.A.E.. But what’s the use of the titles? They’re just Frank and Jimmie, two of the squarest shooters in the game.
“Frank was born, of all places for a flyer to be born, in Marshalltown, Iowa, on March 28, 1897. Iowa’s flat, you know. Wouldn’t think that there’d be much inspiration for flying out there. But maybe all that flat prairie was just so much inspiration to get away from it all, and get up into the air. Anyway, young Frank put plenty of grey hairs in his mother’s head with his love for climbing. Just crazy about high places. Always up a tree, so to speak.
“Little Frank was mighty pretty, I guess. Maybe he wouldn’t like my saying it, but he must have been a smart kid, too. At a very tender age, my lads, our friend Frank Hawks was playing children’s parts in Minneapolis. But then the family moved to California—maybe to live down the scandal of a performing son, and Frank got serious, being mightly busy just going to high school.
“Maybe it was fate, but something happened that changed Frank Hawks’ ideas about what he wanted to be when he grew up. The Christofferson brothers, who were pretty great shakes in those days, and pioneers in flying, set up a shop on the beach outside Frank’s home town. They took up passengers. But they charged plenty for it, and Frank, while he hung around a lot, never had the money to go up, although he was mighty anxious to fly.
“Finally he got an idea. If he couldn’t get up in the usual way, he’d find a way he could go up. So young Frank got himself a pencil, a notebook, and a mighty important look, and approached one of the Christoffersons. ‘I'm from the newspaper, Mr. Christofferson,’ he says, ‘and I’d like an interview with you.’ And he interviewed him just as serious as you please, with Christofferson pleased as could be, thinking of the publicity and the new passengers he’d get. Then young Frank asked if he couldn’t go up, in order to write his impressions of an airplane ride. Of course, of course.
“So Frank Hawks got his first ride in an airplane, and decided on his future career. Aviation got a recruit and Christofferson waited a long time for his interview to appear. In fact, he waited indefinitely.