Subject: FW: P-51
This 1967 true
story is of an experience by a young 12 year old lad in Kingston, Ontario,
Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a privately rebuilt P-51 from WWII
and its famous owner/pilot.
In the morning
sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our little airport, sat a
majestic P-51. They said it had flown in during the night from some
U.S. Airport, on its way to an air show. The pilot had been tired, so he
just happened to choose Kingston for his stop over. It was to take to
the air very soon. 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 tall, lanky man 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!", he said. (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 with an arrogant
snarl. 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 ran 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 the runway 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 hellishly
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 just, more or less, asked the pilot to
return for an impromptu air show! The controller looked at us. "Well,
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 3,000 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 G's and gravity. Her wing tips spilling contrails
of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic. 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 indelible 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 old American 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 loving reciprocal salute to a Country, and especially to that old
American pilot: the late-JIMMY STEWART (1908-1997), Actor, real
WWII Hero (Commander of a US Army Air Force Bomber Wing stationed in
England), and a USAF Reserves Brigadier General, who wove a wonderfully
fantastic memory for a young Canadian boy that's lasted a lifetime.
PLEASE GOD, MAKE
AMERICA GREAT AGAIN….VERY SOON!
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