Beginnings

      
        One hundred years ago to the day (GMT +1), my grandfather, Frederic Barr Shaw, wrote the above letter home on the occasion of his first solo flight. He was a 1st Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Air Service, stationed in Vendome, France, where the British ran a flying school in conjunction with the French.  He was learning to fly on a combination of BE-2C, Airco DH9 and Curtis JN "Jenny" trainers before being assigned to a squadron and sent to the Front. Toad was his family nickname. 

      Aviators take note of the final paragraph. There’s no airport, let alone a runway. Those terms had yet to be invented. My grandfather calls it simply a “landing ground” (an airfield in the most literal sense). Think how nice it would be to never have to perform a crosswind landing. 

      My first solo flight came 70 years later, on June 2, 1988. After doing a couple take-offs and landings, my instructor had me pull off onto a taxiway. He opened the door, hopped out, and told me to do three take-off and landings by myself. 

       I wasn't completely surprised when it happened. My instructor had warned me the week before that I would be soloing soon. But I remember being so nervous that, as I accelerated down the runway, all I could think about was a story my brother told me about a high school classmate of his who crashed and died on his first solo flight. 

      Plane and pilot all landed intact in my case, but it's hard to describe the nervousness, excitement and exhilaration of that first solo flight. Or, to use my grandfather's words, "It's a corker."

      The next two posts will be about aspects of aviation in World War I, including my grandfather's experiences.