Tom-D
Taxi to Parking
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Tom-D
I recieved this in my E-mail today.
Subject
-51 story
Old aviators and old airplanes never seem to die. They just fly off into
eternity.
This is a good story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its American pilot by
a boy who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. It was sent to me by a friend in
Canada and you may know a few others who would appreciate it.
It was noon on a Sunday as I recall, the day that a Mustang P-51 was to take
to the air. They said it had flown in during the night from some US airport and
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. It looked like
it might have been co mbed, 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&nb sp;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 and 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 was set loose---something mighty was coming this way. "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 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 imp romptu air show!
The controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. "I just 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 muffl ed screech, then 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 through the air.
She passed by about 400 mph and 100 yards from where we stood 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 again 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 bro ther, 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 forever for a young Canadian that's
lasted a lifetime.
Subject
-51 storyOld aviators and old airplanes never seem to die. They just fly off into
eternity.
This is a good story about a vivid memory of a P-51 and its American pilot by
a boy who was 12 years old in Canada in 1967. It was sent to me by a friend in
Canada and you may know a few others who would appreciate it.
It was noon on a Sunday as I recall, the day that a Mustang P-51 was to take
to the air. They said it had flown in during the night from some US airport and
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. It looked like
it might have been co mbed, 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&nb sp;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 and 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 was set loose---something mighty was coming this way. "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 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 imp romptu air show!
The controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. "I just 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 muffl ed screech, then 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 through the air.
She passed by about 400 mph and 100 yards from where we stood 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 again 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 bro ther, 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 forever for a young Canadian that's
lasted a lifetime.
