Rich S.[_1_]
June 25th 07, 04:44 PM
I just received this via email, with the encouragement to "pass it on". I
can't think of a better audience.
enjoy,
Rich S.
*************************************************
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. 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.
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 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&n bsp;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 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)..
can't think of a better audience.
enjoy,
Rich S.
*************************************************
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. 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.
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 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&n bsp;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 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)..