An Old Pilot and an Old Plane
Jul 22, 2015 19:58:13 #
I received this recently from an old Canadian friend.
...........................................
This 1967 story is of an experience by young 12 year old lad in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a P-51 and its pilot.
-------------------------
In the morning sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our little airport, sat a majestic P-51.
They said it had flown in during the night from some U.S. Airport, on its way to an air show.
The pilot had been tired, so he just happened to choose Kingston for his stop over.
It was to take to the air very soon.
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, he 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 with an arrogant snarl.
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 ran 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 hellishly 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 just, more or less, 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.
Her wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic.
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.
...........................................
This 1967 story is of an experience by young 12 year old lad in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a P-51 and its pilot.
-------------------------
In the morning sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our little airport, sat a majestic P-51.
They said it had flown in during the night from some U.S. Airport, on its way to an air show.
The pilot had been tired, so he just happened to choose Kingston for his stop over.
It was to take to the air very soon.
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, he 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 with an arrogant snarl.
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 ran 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 hellishly 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 just, more or less, 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.
Her wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic.
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.
Jul 22, 2015 21:28:23 #
Jul 22, 2015 21:35:24 #
BBurns wrote:
I received this recently from an old Canadian frie... (show quote)
Great Story :thumbup:
Swede :wink: :wink:
Jul 23, 2015 00:42:58 #
Jul 23, 2015 02:56:05 #
:thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup:
Jul 23, 2015 05:22:23 #
BBurns wrote:
I received this recently from an old Canadian frie... (show quote)
Many thanks for that BBurns, I enjoyed it immensely!
Jul 23, 2015 07:29:55 #
Jul 23, 2015 08:02:49 #
LoisCroft
Loc: Jonesborough, Tennessee
Thank you so much for sharing this wonderful story. My dad would have loved to read it. He was at Kingston during WWII and always wanted to be a pilot. His eyes were not good enough and he was eventually stationed in Montreal.
Jul 23, 2015 10:34:37 #
Jul 23, 2015 10:45:09 #
Jul 23, 2015 15:39:35 #
wow, don't know how good a photographer you are but I can say with absolute certainty you are one heck of a writer. Your story was superbly written, You should be a writer. Perhaps like former FDNY turned writer dennis smith?
Jul 23, 2015 16:41:43 #
sinatraman wrote:
wow, don't know how good a photographer you are but I can say with absolute certainty you are one heck of a writer. Your story was superbly written, You should be a writer. Perhaps like former FDNY turned writer dennis smith?
No I do not take credit for the writing. I just passed it along.
It does, however, express my love of this fantastic aircraft and the men who fly them.
Jul 23, 2015 18:55:58 #
I just caught that. tell your friend I really enjoy his style of writing
Jul 23, 2015 23:15:02 #
Has always been my favorite airplane! The Axis powers of WWII didn't like her very much though!
Jul 24, 2015 11:30:05 #
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