Post by Chips on Jul 8, 2011 8:02:07 GMT 9.5
Old Aviators and Old Airplanes...
This is a great 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.
It 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 pilot's
lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It 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 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 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 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 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 500 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.
This is a great 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.
It 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 pilot's
lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It 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 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 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 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 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 500 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.