Old Aviators and Old Airplanes : A Story

.....

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.