Old aviators and old airplanes never die.....
Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2007 7:09 pm
Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
> Caveats: NONE
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> Old aviators and old airplanes never die.....
>
> 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 available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he
> "flashed the old bird up. Ju st 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. Al l 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 was coming this
> way. "Listen to that thing!" said the controller. In seconds the Mustang
> burst into our line of sight.
>
> It's 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 dige st 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 e astern 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 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 looke d 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.
>
> Caveats: NONE
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Old aviators and old airplanes never die.....
>
> 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 available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he
> "flashed the old bird up. Ju st 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. Al l 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 was coming this
> way. "Listen to that thing!" said the controller. In seconds the Mustang
> burst into our line of sight.
>
> It's 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 dige st 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 e astern 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 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 looke d 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.
>
