Good read!
Yeah, you've probably read it.
Read it again.
Old Aviators and Old Airplanes.....
This is a good little story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its
pilot by
a fellow who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. 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 U.S.
airport, the pilot had been tired. 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, and 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 vailable 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 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 t o 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 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. "
Kingstontower calling Mustang?" He looked back to us as he waited for an
acknowledgment.
The radio crackled, "Go ahead Kingston ." "Roger Mustang.
Kingstontower 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 fixed toward
the eastern haze. The s ound was subtle at first, a high-pitched
whine,
a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst
through
the haze. Her 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 the old American pilot saluting. Imagine. A
salute! 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 this story; call it a reciprocal
salute, to the old American pilot who wove a memory for a young
Canadian
that's lasted a lifetime.
(Forward to your Pilot Friends) And anyone who would enjoy a
good story!
Glen
Glen Davis
917 297 1111
www.ishootpictures.com
Glen
Glen Davis
917 297 1111
www.ishootpictures.com
