While off topic, we all can just imaging being on the tarmac and watching
the air show.
Steve
> Below was sent by an Air Force friend. Don't know who
> this P-51 veteran pilot was in the story, but the
> article was written by a Canadian named Lea MacDonald
> who recalled witnessing a P-51 takeoff when he was a
> young 12 year old boy. The story is woven with
> language that if you just close your eyes you can
> imagine that you can hear the whine of that powerful
> Merlin engine! Enjoy.
>
> By Lea McDonald ( at www.rense.com)
>
> 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 airport, 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 grey and tossed . . . looked like it might
> have been combed, . . say, around the turn of the
> century. His bomber 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 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. 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 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 Mustang 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 controller
> rushed by me to the radio. "Kingston radio calling
> Mustang?" He looked back to us as he waited for an
> acknowledgment. The radio crackled, "Kingston radio,
> go ahead." "Roger Mustang. Kingston radio would like
> to advise the circuit is clear for a low level pass."
> I stood in shock because the controller 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 radio, 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 radio, we're 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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