When we lived in Beaufort in 1963-66, we lived next door to a Jewish doctor (I'll call him David--not his real name) aspiring to be a neurosurgeon.  He had an opportunity to interview for a neurosurgical residency in Philadelphia, so Ken offered to fly him there.   David had never been in an airplane--much less a supersonic military jet equipped with an ejection seat.

But he was willing to do the chamber (test for anoxia--where you pass out from lack of oxygen) and the ejection seat trial, because he was broke and couldn't even afford the gas to drive.  Contrary to popular opinion, everyone in the military is broke from moving.  Yes the government pays for the moving van, but back then, that was it.  I'd explain all the other costs but I would run out of space.

Long story short, David didn't tell Ken that he had never been in an airplane until they got back from Philly.  They got caught in an ice storm and had to lay over with Dave's Kosher parents for a couple of days and when they returned, they were running low on gas, so Ken did what he had done a zillion times in Korea, he turned off the engine at altitude and glided until they were close to the landing strip before he fired the engine back up to land.

"We never had enough gas to do our runs in Korea.  You would get as high as you could coming in from a run, turn off the engine and glide.  Sometimes we ran out of gas--and had to do a dead stick landing.  The key was getting as close as you could to the air strip and try to reserve enough fuel so that you could turn the engine back on and land.  Sometimes it worked."

"I remember once when I was coming back in, I explained the situation to the tower and he told me I was seventh in the "Low on fuel" landing pattern.  That's when you get a little nervous," Ken said.

Dave swore he would never get in an airplane again--even though he agreed that it was a once in a lifetime experience.  "No problem," Ken told him.  "Everything was under control."

Dave got the job.