Air Cadets 2

“What do Air Cadets do?” I asked.

“For one thing, they practise plane recognition,” said Ed. “Like people used to do during the war. So they could tell if it was an enemy plane or one of ours. There’s people, you know, who could look up at a plane miles away and tell you exactly what make and model it was. American, German, French, British, Russian. My dad can do that, you know.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said.

“Sure, and he taught me some too. Look,” he said, pointing at a gnat floating lazily beneath a cloud some distance away, “That’s a Piper Cub.”

“No,” I contradicted, “It’s a mosquito.”

Eddie looked sharply back at the gnat. “It’s not a Mosquito,” he said, “A Mosquito has a completely different profile.”

“No, Eddie, I mean it really is a mosquito…”

Sure enough, a mosquito was just about to land on Eddie’s cheek. That really scared him.

“I’m allergic to mosquitoes!” he shouted, swatting with his hand, ducking and diving. Within seconds he had performed both a barrel-roll and a loop-the-loop.

I fell on the ground laughing. “Did they teach you that in Air Cadets?”

“Very funny,” said Eddie as he lifted himself up onto his unsteady landing gear legs. “But I’m serious about these Air Cadets. Dad’s going to take us out to the airport. We’ll get to see the old planes, learn about how they work. We’ll learn skydiving, and eventually we’ll get to take flying lessons. Really, you oughtta get in on it.”

“OK, Eddie,” I said, “I think that might be fun. But I’ll have to check with my parents about it. Especially my old man. He was a turret gunner in the war, you know. I bet he could recognize a mosquito with his eyes closed…”

“Hey! Your old man could be the assistant leader!”

“I don’t think so Eddie. He likes flying in front of the television better now…but I’ll ask.”

*  *  *

Air Cadets 1

Let’s see, how old was I, anyway? Must have been about twelve. Eddie, a kid in some other class at school, asked me would I be interested in joining the Air Cadets?

“Air Cadets?” I asked.

“Air Cadets,” Eddie answered. “My father’s the leader.”

Now, this was an interesting prospect. After all, I was already a Boy Sprout. A badgeless sprout, true, but a sprout nonetheless. Why was I badgeless? Because our troop of sprouts was led by a man who resembled Alfalfa in Our Gang. I think it was Alfalfa. Always full of big ideas, but the execution…aye, there’s the rub. Not much in the way of execution. We were therefore known throughout the city as the Alfalfa Sprouts. Troop 41.

Never learned how to tie knots. Except the ones in my stomach before asking a girl to the dance.

Never learned semaphore. No, that’s not true. I learned the alphabet in semaphore. A…B…C…all the way to Z. Unfortunately, I only knew the movements in sequence. A…then B…then C. I couldn’t spell a word. Cat? Not likely. Antidisestablishmentarianism! Forget it. Please inform the captain that little Johnny zipped himself up in his sleeping bag and now the zipper’s stuck and he’s trapped in there…Messages such as this would certainly have to be conveyed by smoke signals. Semaphore was beyond me.

Barely learned how to pitch a tent. Nowadays I’m better off pitching it in the lake.

Orienteering? Read a compass? Build a campfire? Shinny across the river by means of ropes? Nada. The one weekend I spent at Sprout Camp, I nearly puked over the runny scrambled eggs.

I did manage to learn the salute…three fingers poked in my eye, or something like that.