 should know these boys, for they are typical of all the Tom, Dix and Harry's of 17. Together, they are symbolical of one boy, the American youth. The lad you have seen flying one of these incredible planes in the early morning hours when the wind is down, perhaps he's that boy you have seen so often huddled over a littered workbench in your own garage. He is the American youth, our strength and our hope, holding in his capable hands the future of the greatest nation that ever lived. And don't let his casual chatter mislead you, for his thoughts are deeply serious and he dreams of a bright tomorrow of his new world in the sky. Listen. Well, Tom, what's the deal? The Army Air Corps enlisted reserve. There's nothing to it. If you're more than 17 and less than 18, you can get in. Yeah, the same with the Navy. Sure, and you don't have to be a genius either. Just a few qualifications like your parents' consent, mental and physical tests, but nothing very complicated. Gee, I can see me now, all dolled up in gold and silver. Gold and silver, what? Gold bars here, silver wings here, and hat cocked over, just like Gable. Oh, but Uncle Sam can hardly wait. Yeah, neither can I. I'm going to talk to Dad about it tonight. And I know he'll go for it. Go for it? Sure I will. Why not? Well, I'll go for anything that's for the good of my son. It's a chance for him to be something and to learn something. That's what I like about it. He learned something, a useful trade. Engineering, navigation, meteorology, radio. That's good solid stuff to build on after we've won this war. First, I get into the enlisted reserve of the Army, the Navy, or the Marine Corps, and right now. But I'm still a civilian until I'm 18, or even later if I want to finish out a term. And then I'm inducted into pre-flight. That's several months' training at one of the big colleges. And then? And then what? Does the young cadet go spiraling off into the wild blue yonder? I'm afraid not, Tom. Where you see the American flyer is not machine processed or goose-stepped through his training, he must qualify in competitive tests on the ground. Before he gets into the air, sure, it takes time. It takes patience. It takes effort. But it makes sense, and it makes flyers. Here we see the American dodo and his native habitat. Tell the folks what a dodo is. Sir, a dodo is an extinct, non-flying bird of which I am a prime example. A prime example, indeed. But don't let that discourage you. A man should know where he stands before he starts wobbling off into space. That's the reason for all the fascinating and efficient adaptability in aptitude tests. They pry and probe and search. They reveal strong points and expose the weak ones. An unsteady hand discovered here can prevent a disaster 10,000 feet up. How quickly, for instance, does Tom react? How keen is Dick's eyesight? How nimble are Harry's fingers? The answers are all of vital importance to every man in the air corps. Because air strategy today demands full and unified teamwork. A miscue by one man can very well mean the eight ball for the whole outfit. The tabulated results of these impersonal gadgets, the mature and personal judgment of seasoned instructors, they decide in which capacity the dodo flies. Bombardier, pilot, navigator. Debt goes sailing into the stratosphere with wind roaring past his ears. He won't go gallivanting off into the ozone until he has had a lot of solid preparation. These lads of ours aren't stamped out like rubbers. They're going to learn to walk before they learn to fly. And they're going to learn to fly before they learn to fight. This is not learning in 10 easy lessons. It's training. Training worked out with infinite patience and careful planning. How long would you say it should take to turn a cadet into an effective combat airman? Two months? Six months? 10 months? Well, the answer is more like 24 months. You see, we're not training canary birds. We're turning out eagles. The first aerial branch the cadet has to bust is a harmless little critter known as a PT, primary trainer. It is short on horsepower but long on security and adaptability, a sort of a trial horse for Tom, who is being gradually eased into the air after he has proved that he wants to fly and that he can fly. Tom has moved up step by step, taking on planes that are successive and faster, more intricate and more advanced. He progresses strictly by his own individual ability to keep abreast of or ahead of his classmate. Appropriately enough in a high chair, being mathematical projectiles on a hypothetical enemy. It is scientific make-believe like this, which makes him rough and ready when he arrives at the reality of aerial warfare. The bombardier, like Tom, the pilot, is handled with more care than a prize yearling being pointed for the Kentucky Derby. He's going to be a split second man of action who can make quick decisions that are right decisions. In training, he is confronted with every conceivable problem and emergency he may face in actual combat. He is sent out on experimental runs, goes on secret training missions, he operates under war zone restrictions, and bombs replicas of enemy targets. He's the guy with the mailed fist and his right arm is the bomb site which he has sworn to defend with his life. The navigator has been compared with the quarterback of a football team. He charts and calls the plays. He must get his combat team to the enemy's goal. He must get them home again. Harry, the navigator, like Tom and Dick, is taught from the ground up. That is, he must click in ground school before he goes up. His is the fascinating world of latitudes, longitudes, and dead reckoning. Through a meticulous training program, he shapes up as a dependable celestial executive. Yep, it's a desk job for the navigator, but this strange and magic desk flies through the air at unmentionable speed. But he's mighty important to Tom, Dick, and Harry. He's going to be one of the world's best-trained aerial marksmen, a gunner. He must attain split-second perfection in his identification of enemy planes. He must know his intricate weapons like he knows the fingers of his hands. He must be ready to take his place in the greatest fighting team the skies have ever known. Full phase of training at an operational unit somewhere in the USA. There's a big, beautiful plane waiting for the graduate airman. She's a buick, she is. Delicate as a rose and deadly as a rattlesnake. She's got good bloodlines, too. Sort of a younger sister of the Susie Q in the Memphis Bell. Armed to the teeth and her proud nose pointed straight at what's left of the axis. Her crew are no longer just a group of flyers. They're one unified team. Gunners, bombardiers, navigators, and pilots flying and fighting together to win. Sweet home to all of you. It's a little bit of America itself, for it has in it not only aluminum and copper and steel, but the sweat, the hearts, and the hopes of your fellow Americans who built it. And remember, you will not be alone. There'll be more bombs. There'll be more fighters. There'll be more transports, more flying boats. There'll be more men of the Army Air Corps, more of the Navy Air Corps, more marine flyers. Yes, there'll be more, more, more. Until victory till you in peace and security can dream again of his new world in the skies of tomorrow.