P-51 sighting... a tale of and from the past...

[Mitch Cronin]

Borrowed from elsewhere, but well worth repeating:

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

heartpounded . . . 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.

Still waiting for that day... I'll join the (unknown?) author in that salute.... and the wait....