[NSRCA-discussion] An Old Pilot And An Old Airplane - Off Topic

[Keith Black]

I'm not big on forwarding emails, but my father forwarded this one to me and I just have to share it.

  This is a story about a vivid memory of a P-51 
and its pilot by a fellow when he was 12 years old 
in Canada in 1967. 
    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 US air-
port, and 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, 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 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 extin-
guisher 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 shim-
mered 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 thunder-
ous roar, blue flames knifed from her manifolds.  
I looked at the others' faces, there was no con-
cern,  so 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 Mus-
tang 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 con-
troller 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 control-
ler 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 400 mph and 150 yards from where 
we stood she passed with an 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 a story; call it a 
reciprocal salute, to the old American pilot who 
wove a memory for a young Canadian that's stayed 
a lifetime.
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