“How did it go?” Sharp asked, looking up from his book.

Joe’s enormous grin probably said everything he needed to say, but he spelled it out just the same:

“Lieutenant Foster’s going to let me solo next time I go up! I can’t wait!”

His roomie’s pleasure seemed entirely unalloyed. “That’s terrific! I know you were hoping, but I don’t think you expected it quite so soon.”

“Nope. He liked my firing run at the target. I think that’s what clinched it.” Slower than he should have, Joe remembered Sharp had flown this morning, too. “How about you?”

“My instructor let me take it up by myself today.” Sharp shrugged in wry self-deprecation. “I lived.”

Joe fought down a stab of jealousy. His roommate had soloed in a Stearman a week before he had, too. Sharp did everything well and didn’t fuss about anything. He was so unassuming, you almost had to act the same way around him. Joe walked over and stuck out his hand. “Way to go! Congratulations!”

“Thanks, buddy.” Orson Sharp’s hand was almost half again as big as his. When the cadets played football, Sharp was a lineman. Joe played end or defensive back. He was quick, but he wasn’t big.

“We’re getting there,” Sharp added.

“Yeah!” Joe said. “We’ve still got instrument flying to do, on the Link trainers on the ground and then up in the air, and I suppose they’ll give us some flight time on F3Fs, too.” The Navy’s last biplane fighter had stayed in front-line service till less than two months before Pearl Harbor. Joe tried to imagine F3Fs mixing it up with Zeros. Perhaps mercifully, the picture didn’t want to form. Now the F3F was a last-step trainer. Joe added two more words: “And then…”