I attended a talk given by General Yeager at the National Air and Space Museum in the early 1990's. The presentation lasted a little longer than an hour and when it ended the General was given a protracted and well-deserved standing ovation.
The one and only Chuck Yeager stuck around to converse with anyone who cared to remain; many, including me, had brought a copy of his autobiography to receive its author's signature. When my turn arrived, I gave the General a firm handshake which he returned as he stared at me through squinting turquoise eyes. I could see vague hints of the surgeries he'd undergone when half of his face was burned severely by the melted metal lava of the rocket of his ejection seat as he plummeted nearly ten miles; I could see the deep wrinkles carved into that face, written there as he sighted his single-shot .22 rifle on a rabbit in the "holler" depending on "piped-in" sunlight, or when he had Migs, or Messerschmitts, or sound barriers to conquer with unequaled precision.
Then my turn was done and the next lucky attendee got to create his own indelible memory. I exited the museum through the main lobby. At floor level, I walked past the Apollo Command Module, Columbia. Above me hung The Spirit of St. Louis, The Wright Flyer, an X-15, and the Bell X-1, a .45 bullet fuselage with stub-wings named
Glamorous Glennis. These craft were not replicas - they were the genuine article.
I spent a moment looking up, trying to grasp the depth of courage it took to pilot these amazing craft, and to treasure the remembrance of the strong handshake and broad smile given to me by one of them: a true hero, whose commitment to success came from the very heavenly skies toward which he so frequently turned his gaze.
- Ed
