The Ace of Sewanee

I got my pilot’s license in 1984, but it was another five years before I became a pilot. Even then, my education had only just begun. Someone once said, “If we are lucky, we will encounter at least one person whose life elevates and inspires our own.” I’ve been a lucky man, indeed.

Beginning almost forty years ago, I spent time in the cockpit with a series of pilots whose influence I have only recently come to appreciate. These men and women taught me the art and science of flying. Gray-haired and wearing bifocals, most had come of age in the 1940s and served in our country’s armed forces during those desperate times. Their generation is rapidly disappearing. Soon, they will exist only as memories for pilots like me, who were fortunate enough to cross paths with them in their twilight years. This essay is a belated tribute to them. They were, to borrow a term from Eugene Sledge, of the Old Breed.

Non Compos Mentis

After earning my instrument rating, commercial license, and buying a Twin Comanche, I decided to sharpen my flying skills with some aerobatic instruction. An outfit in Tennessee, Ace Aerobatic School, topped the IAC’s list of recommended schools.

At least the owner had a sense of humor. I discovered he had also authored several books (one of which sold over a million copies), given aerobatic instruction to hundreds of pilots, and performed thousands of spins in a C-152 Aerobat. Franklin County Airport, Ace’s international base of operations, is about fifty miles northwest of Chattanooga, in the hill country of southern Tennessee. I arrived in N13K on a sunny December day in the early ’90s. A man in a Nomex flight suit and brown leather flight jacket stood on the tarmac as I taxied in. After helping me tie down the bucking bronco, he introduced himself.

The patch on Bill’s jacket read “Ace Aerobatic School” on top and “Non Compos Mentis” on the bottom.

With a slight Tennessee twang, William Kershner welcomed me to Sewanee, Tennessee—home to Ace Aerobatic School and the University of the South. Kershner was a trim man of medium height, with a receding hairline and a slight comb-over. Dimpled cheeks flanked a mischievous smile, and warm eyes twinkled behind a pair of black bifocals. He wore a large Tailhook patch on the back of his flight jacket. Over the left breast was a six-inch circular patch reading “Ace Aerobatic School” on top and “Non Compos Mentis” on the bottom. At the center of the patch was an inverted C-152, with a bewildered bird in the background, seemingly trying to make sense of the scene.

Kershner was the Ace of Ace Aerobatic School—and he had the bona fides to back it up. Bill had soloed at fifteen and, by nineteen, was teaching aerobatics. Before he turned twenty-five, he was flying an F4U Corsair off the USS Philippine Sea in the early 1950s. Later, he worked as a corporate pilot, a test pilot, and an author. He penned five flight manuals (one of which sold over a million copies), published scores of magazine articles, and trained hundreds of civilian and military pilots in the art of aerobatic flight. He was the real McCoy.

During the most enjoyable three days I’ve ever spent in an airplane, Kershner immersed me in the art and science of aerobatics. Each lesson began with an hour of classroom instruction, followed by a forty-five-minute flight. Meeting in the FBO’s classroom, Kershner would diagram the mechanics and aerodynamics of each maneuver on a dry-erase board before we headed out to the Aerobat.

My first flight was cut short—I puked after looking out the side window during my first roll, exactly what Kershner told me not to do. We returned to base so I could clean up the plane and myself. The next day, we restarted with the basics: steep turns, chandelles, wingovers, and stalls. Then came rolls, loops, multi-turn spins, and aileron-only spin recoveries. More followed: barrel rolls, Cuban eights, reverse Cuban eights, Immelmanns, snap rolls, and vertical snap rolls. I even rolled and spun the Aerobat under the hood, using only the stock AI to recover.

Bill, whose raconteurial skills rivaled those of the legendary Max Karant, shared some of his stories over lunch one day at his home. As a Piper test pilot, he once flew a PA-30 with two 400-horsepower engines strapped to the wings—more than double the output of the stock Lycomings. It was quite a ride. Piper chose not to pursue the project further after Bill’s flight. He served in the Navy during some pivotal years. In 1954, his squadron was placed on alert to launch a combat mission in support of an ally. The mission was later scrubbed. Days afterward, the French surrendered at Dien Bien Phu. He must’ve told me a half dozen more gems that day. His remarkable life story could’ve filled a book of its own.

All good things come to an end. My three days in Sewanee literally and figuratively flew by. Bill saw me off at the airport, awarding me the coveted AAS patch, which now proudly hangs in my home’s memory lane. As we shook hands, I said I’d be back—probably not the first time Bill had heard that. When I got home, I bought every book he’d written, reading each one, highlighting and underlining as I went. I looked forward to returning to Sewanee in a couple of years for a refresher.

I never made it back.

Bill passed away sixteen years later, in 2007, having taught more than 500 pilots how to spin an airplane. That little C-152 Aerobat we flew out of Sewanee was retired after his death and is now on display at the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum near Dulles Airport. In front of N7557L is a placard with an aerial photo of Bill in the right seat, about to enter another spin.

In front of N7557L is a placard with an aerial photo of Bill in the right seat, about to enter another spin.

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Lee White

Lee White of Charlottesville, Virginia, received his pilot’s license in 1985. A few years later, he encountered a remarkable series of pilot-mentors, beginning with his instrument instructor in 1988. Their influence led him to remain a lifelong student pilot, even now with several thousand flight hours and multiple advanced ratings. He served in the US Navy Reserve for 22 years, retiring as an O-6 after four deployments in 2012. He is gradually retiring from his civilian career at the University of Virginia Medical Center. Still, he remains an active flyer, logging about 120 hours a year in his Columbia 400 based at CHO. His most recent training, in July, included a Mountain-Canyon flying course, where he spent eight hours flying a C-182 in and out of Idaho’s backcountry landing strips.

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