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Hello ALL,
Knowing how I appreciate things flyable, a buddy sent this my way in an email. It's too good not to share. Enjoy!
Subject: P-51 and its Pilot
This is a good little story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its
pilot, by a fellow who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. You may know
a few others who would appreciate it.
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
U.S. 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, and 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, 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 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.
It's 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 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, 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 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.
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HEHEHE, looks great! 
