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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Thanks for sharing Keith. I enjoyed it.
Brought back memories for me when obtaining my private, and some of the
vintage warbirds that used to frequent the local airport. Always worth my time
to enjoy seeing them playing in their element.</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2> </FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2> Del</FONT></DIV>
<BLOCKQUOTE
style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px">
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial">----- Original Message ----- </DIV>
<DIV
style="BACKGROUND: #e4e4e4; FONT: 10pt arial; font-color: black"><B>From:</B>
<A title=tkeithb@comcast.net href="mailto:tkeithb@comcast.net">Keith Black</A>
</DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>To:</B> <A
title=nsrca-discussion@lists.nsrca.org
href="mailto:nsrca-discussion@lists.nsrca.org">NSRCA Mailing List</A> </DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Sent:</B> Tuesday, August 15, 2006 12:25
PM</DIV>
<DIV style="FONT: 10pt arial"><B>Subject:</B> [NSRCA-discussion] An Old Pilot
And An Old Airplane - Off Topic</DIV>
<DIV><BR></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial>
<DIV><FONT color=black size=2><SPAN style="COLOR: black">I'm not big on
forwarding emails, but my father forwarded this one to me and I just have to
share it.</SPAN></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT color=black size=2><SPAN
style="COLOR: black"></SPAN></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT color=black size=2><SPAN style="COLOR: black"> This is a
story about a vivid memory of a P-51 <BR>and its pilot by a fellow when he was
12 years old <BR>in Canada in 1967. <BR> It was noon on a
Sunday as I recall, the day a <BR>Mustang P-51 was to take to the air.
They said it <BR>had flown in during the night from some US air-<BR>port, and
the pilot had been tired.<BR> I marveled at the size of the
plane dwarfing the <BR>Pipers and Canucks tied down by her. It was much
<BR>larger than in the movies. She glistened in the sun <BR>like a
bulwark of security from days gone by.<BR> The pilot arrived
by cab, paid the driver, then <BR>stepped into the flight lounge. He was
an older <BR>man, his wavy hair was gray and tossed - looked <BR>like it might
have been combed around the turn <BR>of the century. His flight jacket
was checked, <BR>creased, and worn - it smelled old and genuine. <BR>Old
Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. <BR>He projected a quiet
air of proficiency and pride <BR>devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick
flight plan <BR>to Montreal (Expo-67, Air Show) then walked <BR>across the
tarmac.<BR> After taking several minutes to perform his
<BR>walk-around check the pilot returned to the flight <BR>lounge to ask if
anyone would be available to stand <BR>by with fire extinguishers while he
"flashed the <BR>old bird up . . . just to be safe." Though only
12 at <BR>the time I was allowed to stand by with an extin-<BR>guisher after
brief instruction on its use -- "If you <BR>see a fire, point, then pull this
lever!" I later <BR>became a firefighter, but that's another
story.<BR> The air around the exhaust manifolds
shim-<BR>mered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge <BR>prop started to
rotate. One manifold, then <BR>another, and yet another barked -- I
stepped <BR>back with the others. In moments the Packard-<BR>built
Merlin engine came to life with a thunder-<BR>ous roar, blue flames knifed
from her manifolds. <BR>I looked at the others' faces, there was no
con-<BR>cern, so I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. <BR>One of
the guys signaled to walk back to the <BR>lounge. We
did.<BR> Several minutes later we could hear the pilot
<BR>doing his pre flight run-up. He'd taxied to the <BR>end of runway
19, out of sight. All went quiet for <BR>several seconds, we raced from
the lounge to the <BR>second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse
<BR>of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We <BR>could not. There
we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half <BR>way down 19. Then a roar ripped
across the field, <BR>much louder than before, like a furious hell spawn
<BR>set loose---something mighty this way was coming.<BR>
"Listen to that thing!" Said the controller. In <BR>seconds the Mustang
burst into our line of sight. <BR>Its tail was already off and it was
moving faster <BR>than anything I'd ever seen by that point on 19.
<BR>Two thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was <BR>airborne with her gear
going up. The prop tips <BR>were supersonic; we clasped our ears as the
Mus-<BR>tang climbed hellish fast into the circuit to be eaten <BR>up by the
dog-day haze.<BR> We stood for a few moments in stunned
silence <BR>trying to digest what we'd just seen. The radio
con-<BR>troller rushed by me to the radio. "Kingston tower <BR>calling
Mustang?" He looked back to us as he <BR>waited for an acknowledgment.
The radio crackled, <BR>"Go ahead Kingston." "Roger Mustang. Kingston
<BR>tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a <BR>low level pass."
I stood in shock because the control-<BR>ler had, more or less, just asked the
pilot to return <BR>for an impromptu air show!<BR> The
controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. <BR>"I can't let that
guy go without asking . . I couldn't <BR>forgive myself!" The radio crackled
once again, <BR>"Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, <BR>east
to west, across the field?" "Roger Mustang, the <BR>circuit is clear for an
east to west pass." "Roger, <BR>Kingston, I'm coming out of 3000 feet, stand
by." <BR>We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes <BR>fixed toward the
eastern haze.<BR> The sound was subtle at first, a
high-pitched <BR>whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. <BR>Moments
later the P-51 burst through the haze, her <BR>airframe straining against
positive Gs and gravity, <BR>wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air,
prop-<BR>tips again supersonic as the burnished bird blasted <BR>across the
eastern margin of the field shredding <BR>and tearing the
air.<BR> At about 400 mph and 150 yards from where <BR>we
stood she passed with an old American pilot <BR>saluting . .
. imagine . . . a salute. I felt
like <BR>laughing, I felt like crying; she glistened, she <BR>screamed, the
building shook, my heart pounded, <BR>then the old pilot pulled her up .
. . . and rolled, <BR>and rolled, and rolled out of sight
into the broken <BR>clouds and indelibly into my memory.<BR>
I've never wanted to be an American more than <BR>on that day. It was a
time when many nations in <BR>the world looked to America as their big
brother, <BR>a steady and even-handed beacon of security who <BR>navigated
difficult political water with grace and <BR>style; not unlike the pilot who'd
just flown into my <BR>memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not
<BR>a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of <BR>America at its
best. That America will return one <BR>day, I know it
will.<BR> Until that time, I'll just send off a story; call
it a <BR>reciprocal salute, to the old American pilot who <BR>wove a memory
for a young Canadian that's stayed <BR>a lifetime.</SPAN></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT color=black size=2><SPAN
style="COLOR: black"></SPAN></FONT> </DIV></FONT></DIV>
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