This was sent to me fby a former USAFthen commercial pilot,

Having seen much the same with P51 and Spit, I understand.

P-51Must Read
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 wa s 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 permiss ion 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.

With a silent "Thanks" to the controller who made it possible for to
happen so we could read it.  -  Karl