Sam Matthews was born in the mid-1950s in Allenwood, Oregon.

  His father was the foreman at a local sawmill. Sam was their only child—by design. “Money’s always tight,” his father told him when he once asked why he had no brothers or sisters. “No point having starving children.”

  He did, however, have pets—cats, rabbits, guinea pigs—and plenty of friends to get into mischief with.

  Sam did all right at school. He kept his head down, stayed out of trouble, and did what was expected. He understood early on that he’d probably never be rich, but he was determined to be happy.

  He grew up with a saw and an axe in his hands. There was a constant supply of offcuts and scrap wood from the sawmill, and most evenings his father would come home with the pickup loaded down.

  “Cut and chop that lot after school tomorrow,” he’d say.

  The wood kept the fire going and fueled the stove. A back-boiler fed hot water through the house. Later, when Sam was older, his father let him use the chainsaw. Sam learned how to mix the fuel, sharpen the chain, and change spark plugs and filters. He picked things up quickly.

  At the sawmill, he’d watch the mechanics service the big diesel engine that powered the bandsaw. “Fetch me a 3/8th ring spanner,” one of them would say, and Sam would hand it over. He learned a lot just by being there, observing.

  That’s where his interest in engines began.

  One of Sam’s closest friends was Joe—six months older, and the proud owner of a Honda CR125 off-road bike. It had a two-stroke engine and could really move, though Joe was constantly tinkering with it to make it faster. Sam often helped him, and they spent hours tearing along the forest tracks.

  ***

  One day, there was an unfortunate incident.

  Joe had just finished working on the fuel system when Sam turned up.

  “I’ve made a few adjustments,” Joe said, beaming. “Improved the fuel supply.”

  He straddled the bike and kicked it over.

  He must have forgotten to tighten the fuel line.

  The engine ignited with a sharp flash, and in an instant Joe was engulfed in fire.

  He dropped the bike and hurled himself into the long grass, rolling frantically. Luckily, it had rained that morning, and the grass was still wet.

  Sam stared in shock at the bike—now in flames—then at Joe. Without hesitation, he threw himself onto his friend, using his jacket to smother the fire.

  Joe had several burns—the worst on the right side of his face and ear. His older brother came running when he heard the shouting and drove them both into town to the doctor.

  Sam was singed, but otherwise unharmed. Joe’s earlobe blistered so badly it nearly reached his shoulder.

  That evening, Sam caught an earful from his father.

  Words like “immature,” “irresponsible,” and “lunatic” echoed through the kitchen.

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  “Do you want to end up like Billy Parker?” his mother asked.

  Billy Parker had left home on his eighteenth birthday. Within a year, he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. To his parents’ embarrassment, he was now serving five years in a state penitentiary on drugs charges.

  For weeks after the motorbike incident, Sam caught grief over every little thing. Any time there was a problem, Sam’s ears would receive a thrashing from what he referred to as “The Billy Parker stick.”

  Whenever trouble arose, he’d mutter to his friends, “The Billy Parker stick was out again last night.” His friends would laugh.

  Still, Sam knew the truth—he’d have to leave Allenwood one day. There was no real work to be found locally.

  One evening, he worked up the courage to talk to his father.

  “I want to work on engines,” he said.

  His father looked at him for a moment before replying. “Nearest place is fifty miles. I doubt they’re looking for an apprentice. I’m not letting you drive that far, and you’re not staying there either. You might end up like Billy Parker.”

  Sam resisted the urge to groan. Not the Billy Parker episode again.

  The conversation fizzled out.

  It was his grandfather who gave him a new idea.

  The old man had served in Europe during the Second World War—as a gunner on a B-17 bomber.

  “There are plenty of engines in the armed forces,” he said one afternoon. “You should look into that.”

  Sam thought about it. The idea made sense. He’d have to talk to his parents.

  After dinner one evening, he brought it up.

  His mother was shocked. “The armed forces? Oh, Sam—you’re so young.”

  “I’ll have to leave eventually,” he said. “You can keep me here until I’m eighteen, but then what? There’s no work around here, and that’s not going to change in a year. You keep bringing up Billy Parker. I don’t want to end up like him. I think this is a good idea.”

  His father looked thoughtful. “This is beyond my experience. I’ll talk to the headmaster at school. He can get us some information.”

  Sam nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”

  A week passed, then Sam was summoned to the headmaster’s office.

  ***

  For most pupils, the headmaster’s office was a place of dread—a large, somber room with dark wood paneling, tall bookcases, and a wide window overlooking the sports fields. The atmosphere was always serious.

  The headmaster, Gilbert Stone, was a strict but fair man. The students addressed him as Sir, the staff as Mr. Stone. His wife had died in a car accident two years earlier. Since then, he had seemed even sterner—but never cruel. Misbehaviour was not something he tolerated.

  “Well, Matthews,” Mr. Stone began, folding his hands on the desk. “The armed forces, is it? I think that might do you good. Here’s what I’ve found out.”

  Sam listened closely as Mr. Stone continued.

  “You’ll need to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery—known as the ASVAB. It’s a test that assesses your current knowledge and helps the recruiter match you with a suitable role.”

  He paused, then ticked off on his fingers.

  “There are ten sections: general science, arithmetic reasoning, word knowledge, paragraph comprehension, mathematics, electronics, auto knowledge, shop knowledge, mechanical comprehension, and object assembly. A full sweep of your aptitudes.”

  Mr. Stone leaned back slightly. “High schools are allowed to offer the test to students sixteen and up. You can enlist at seventeen—with your parents’ consent. I can arrange the test here if you're interested.”

  “Yes, please, sir,” Sam said without hesitation.

  “I'll let you know. In the meantime, do your coursework—and if you're serious about this, start revising for that test.”

  Sam left the office feeling light, even a little proud. He went home that evening and began to study.

  A month later, he sat alone in a classroom. A teacher laid the test papers in front of him.

  Here we go, he thought.

  When the written part was done, he was handed a box of plastic parts and a diagram. The task: assemble a model gearbox. It wasn’t meant for actual use—just a test of mechanical thinking.

  Sam completed the written sections and the gearbox assembly. The papers and model were sent off to the military for evaluation.

  A week later, he was summoned to Mr. Stone’s office again.

  The headmaster stood to greet him and extended a hand.

  “Congratulations, Sam. You passed. Good marks, too. A recruiter will be visiting next month to speak with you.”

  Sam couldn’t stop grinning. He left the office walking on air.

  ***

  A few weeks later, he was called into an empty classroom where a man in uniform waited—Mr. Thompson, a recruiter for the armed forces.

  “Hello, Sam. So—you’re interested in a military career?”

  “Yes, sir. I want to be a mechanic.”

  “Good. All three branches need mechanics. The Army works with jeeps, tanks, and personnel carriers. The Navy maintains base vehicles, aircraft engines, and a lot of shipboard equipment. And the Air Force, of course, deals with vehicles and aircraft engines too.”

  Sam listened carefully.

  “Have you thought about which branch you’d like to join?” the recruiter asked.

  “My grandfather served in the Air Force during World War Two,” Sam replied. “I’d like to follow in his footsteps.”

  “Very good. And you’re sixteen now?”

  “Yes, sir. I turn seventeen in July.”

  “You’ll need your parents’ permission. Have you spoken to them?”

  “Yes, sir. There won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. I’ll start the paperwork. We’ll be in touch in a month or two.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Thompson handed him a leaflet. “This explains your training. First, there’s a seven-week basic military training course at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. Once you pass that, you’ll begin your specialized mechanic training—also at Lackland.”

  The interview ended, and Sam returned to class, his head already buzzing with plans.

  Two months later, his enlistment papers arrived in the post.

  On the final day of term, Mr. Stone pulled him aside.

  “I wish you well in your career, Matthews. I hope you’ve found your niche in life. But don’t think for a moment that your learning ends here. What you’ve had so far is just the foundation. You’ve been taught the basics—it’s up to you to build on them.

  Whatever you do, do it well. If you learn to drive, do it properly. One less idiot on the roads, eh?”

  He smiled, just faintly. “And do come back sometime. Let me know how you’re getting on.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you.”