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

[Bill Glaze]

Keith:
As one who grew up during those "glory years" a posting like this brought tears to my eyes.  I remember well when my Dad worked as an Electrical engineer for North American Aviation, Inglewood, Calif. and the pride I felt as these wonderful machines and their equally godlike (to me, anyway) pilots, made us proud to be Americans.  I hoped at the time, but never expected, that aviation would play the part in my life it has.
A true blessing.
Insofar as I am concerned, postings like yours are always much, much more than welcome.
Bill Glaze
  ----- Original Message ----- 
  From: george w. kennie 
  To: NSRCA Mailing List 
  Sent: Tuesday, August 15, 2006 12:57 PM
  Subject: Re: [NSRCA-discussion] An Old Pilot And An Old Airplane - Off Topic


  Wonderful stuff Keith !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    ----- Original Message ----- 
    From: Keith Black 
    To: NSRCA Mailing List 
    Sent: Tuesday, August 15, 2006 12:25 PM
    Subject: [NSRCA-discussion] An Old Pilot And An Old Airplane - Off Topic


    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.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------


    _______________________________________________
    NSRCA-discussion mailing list
    NSRCA-discussion at lists.nsrca.org
    http://lists.nsrca.org/mailman/listinfo/nsrca-discussion


------------------------------------------------------------------------------


  _______________________________________________
  NSRCA-discussion mailing list
  NSRCA-discussion at lists.nsrca.org
  http://lists.nsrca.org/mailman/listinfo/nsrca-discussion
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: http://lists.nsrca.org/pipermail/nsrca-discussion/attachments/20060815/756335fa/attachment.html