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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Thank you Kieth. From a permanan
lurker.</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>AW</FONT></DIV>
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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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