Marine
11-09-2006, 8:29pm
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 gray 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 lou der 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 boy that's stayed
a lifetime.
Not the usual general sappy pseudo-patriotic crap you see the soccer moms and suburbanites spouting off in their emails and bumper stickers. It acknowledges we aren't at our best right now, and that we could do better; a return to a more righteous America; before Vietnam, Iraq, etc.
I know I long for it.
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 gray 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 lou der 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 boy that's stayed
a lifetime.
Not the usual general sappy pseudo-patriotic crap you see the soccer moms and suburbanites spouting off in their emails and bumper stickers. It acknowledges we aren't at our best right now, and that we could do better; a return to a more righteous America; before Vietnam, Iraq, etc.
I know I long for it.