No idea who wrote this story but it's a great read.
"Old aviators and old airplanes never die... they just fly off into
eternity."
This is a good little story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its pilot
by a fellow when he was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. Some of you may
know a few others who would appreciate it.
It was noon on a Sunday as I recall, the day a Mustang P-51 was to take
to the air. They said it had flown in during the night from some US
airport, the pilot had been tired so landed here for the night.
I marveled at the size of the plane dwarfing the Pipers and Canucks tied
down by her. It was much larger than in the movies. She glistened in the
sun like a bulwark of security from days gone by.
The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, then stepped into the flight
lounge. He was an older man, his wavy hair was gray and tossed . . .
looked like it might have been combed, . .. . . . say, around the turn of
the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased, and worn - it
smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its
shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of
arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (Expo-67, Air Show)
then walked across the tarmac.
After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check the pilot
returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to
stand by with fire extinguishers while he "flashed the old bird up . . .
just to be safe." Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by
with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use -- "If you see a
fire, point, then pull this lever!" I later became a firefighter, but
that's another story.
The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel
fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another,
and yet another barked -- I stepped back with the others.
In moments the Packard-built V-12 Merlin engine came to life with a
thunderous roar, blue flames knifed from her manifolds. I looked at the
others' faces, there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my
extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We
did.
Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre flight
run-up. He'd taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went
quiet for several seconds, we raced from the lounge to the second story
deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the old P-51 as she started
down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half
way down 19. Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than
before, like a furious hell spawn set loose---something mighty this way
was coming!
"Listen to that thing!" Said the controller. In seconds the Mustang
burst into our line of sight. Its tail was already off and it was moving
faster than anything I'd ever seen by that point on 19. Two thirds the
way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop
tips were supersonic; we clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellish
fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze.
We stood for a few moments in stunned silence trying to digest what we'd
just seen. The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. "Kingston
tower calling Mustang?" He looked back to us as he waited for an
acknowledgment. The radio crackled, "Go ahead Kingston." "Roger Mustang.
Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low level
pass." I stood in shock because the controller had, more or less, just
asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show!
The controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. "I can't let that guy go
without asking . . . . I couldn't forgive myself!" The radio crackled
once again, "Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, east
to west, across the field?" "Roger Mustang, the circuit is clear for an
east to west pass." "Roger, Kingston, I'm coming out of 3000 feet, stand
by." We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes now fixed toward
the eastern haze.
The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech,
a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her
valiant old airframe straining against positive Gs and gravity, wing
tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic as
the burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field
shredding and tearing the air.
At about 400 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with an
old American pilot saluting ....... imagine ....a salute to us Canadians!
I felt like laughing, I felt like crying, she glistened, she screamed,
the building shook, my heart pounded . . . then the old pilot pulled her
up . . . . and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the
broken clouds .....and indelibly into my memory.
I've never wanted to be an American more than on that day. It was a time
when many nations in the world looked to America as their big brother, a
steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult
political water with grace and style; not unlike the pilot who'd just
flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a
braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best.
That America will return one day, I know it will.
Until that time, I'll just send off a story; call it a reciprocal
salute, to the old American pilot who wove a memory for a young Canadian
that's stayed a lifetime.
