Robert Lee Scott Jr.

"One Sunday, I was carrying out my training in a reveries, my imagination running wild as I gunned my machine into a tight turn, dipping low to compensate for centrifugal force. Suddenly over the din of the exhaust there came the frantic scream of a frightened horse. I hurriedly braked and watched the terrified animal plunge down the side of the mountain, then across the stream and into the trees on the other side. It was obviously a U.S. Cavalry mount. Between calling soothing words to his animal, the uniformed rider shouted for me to cut my engine. I almost fell off the motorcycle when I realized it was Colonel Robert C. Richardson, the commandant of cadets. Fumbling to still my raving engine, I leaped from the machine, praying out loud that the "Com" could regain control before both he and his horse were killed. All my plans for a commission as a second lieutenant seemed to hang in the balance, but I dismissed these selfish thoughts and raced down the mountain, determined to reach the Com in time to be of some aid."

"Anyway, my adventures had run out by 1982 when I made the worst mistake of my life by shutting myself away to work night and day on this book. I gradually became worse than bored until, as the year came to a close, I knew something was very wrong with me. I could not sleep and the thought of food- even breakfast, my favorite meal of the day- made me ill. As a teen-age Merchant Marine sailor I had never been seasick even in North Atlantic storms. As a flight instructor, I had never known airsuckness in all my years of teaching acrobatics. Now my force-feedings left me nauseated. I no longer bounced out of bed, awakening to sunrises full of plans, expectations, and promises. A fog had rolled in and with it came fear, cold and stark. I have always worked to remain in good physical condition and all medical tests failed to find any problem. Then they sent me to the last department, Psychiatry. I had reactive depression. As a psychiatrist explained it, I had lived a full and productive life only to become a recluse in my self-made prison. I learned then that depression is a disease; for me, accustomed as I was to boundless good health, it was the worst sickness I have ever known. In these more enlightened times, help is finally available in some measure for the millions who suffer from depression. Just recognizing it as a disease that can be treated has been a major step."

"I was flying with 1,000-pound bombs attached to my P-51. We were escorting B-29s sent to bomb steel mills in Korea. On the return I flew over Peking and over the Great Wall. I was fascinated with it and followed it all the way to the Yangtze River. My plane made a shadow over the wall and I said out loud, ‘O God, let me one day walk were my shadow walks.’"

"Weekends became training manoeuvres conducted in total secrecy- a uniformed cadet could hardly ride a motorcycle openly along the Plain of West Point- to prepare myself for thousands of miles along Marco Polos route. I soon realized that New York State roads bore little resemblance to the rough terrain I would probably encounter in Europe and Asia Minor, but in the beautiful wooded hills sloping down past Callum Hall to the Hudson River, I found mountain trails running well past Cranberry Pond that seemed ideal for my purposes. These were bridle paths used occasionally by tactical officers on duty at the Academy- many from the cavalry- or by cadets with special riding privileges."

"I cleared the first magnolia, but then the main wing strut broke, and I came down in Mrs. Napiers rose bushes. Its the only plane I ever crashed"

"As these words are being written, I am in the process of moving back to Georgia. Whatever the merits of Horace Greeleys advice, I have to paraphrase Walt Whitman and say that the farther west I have gone, the worse I have felt. It took me years to catch on. Then one day I flew east to the Museum of Flight and heard a fine lady by the name of Peggy Young tell me what it was, and I was hooked; I had found my ultimate purpose in life. I am now back in the Cherokee rose state to stay, near my hometown of Macon where- so many years ago- I jumped off the roof of the tallest house in town in a homemade glider. The Museum of Aviation only came into my life recently; it was not many years ago that I lacked the sense of purpose and satisfaction that it brings me. After coming home from China, victorious over my dual obsessions, I went through the worst period of my life, and found out how very much I needed goals. Big ones, too, because I never did learn how to do anything at less than full throttle."