Welcome to my blog http://www.skegley.blogspot.com/ . CAVEAT LECTOR- Let the reader beware. This is a Christian Conservative blog. It is not meant to offend anyone. Please feel free to ignore this blog, but also feel free to browse and comment on my posts! You may also scroll down to respond to any post.

For Christian American readers of this blog:

I wish to incite all Christians to rise up and take back the United States of America with all of God's manifold blessings. We want the free allowance of the Bible and prayers allowed again in schools, halls of justice, and all governing bodies. We don't seek a theocracy until Jesus returns to earth because all men are weak and power corrupts the very best of them.
We want to be a kinder and gentler people without slavery or condescension to any.

The world seems to be in a time of discontent among the populace. Christians should not fear. God is Love, shown best through Jesus Christ. God is still in control. All Glory to our Creator and to our God!

A favorite quote from my good friend, Jack Plymale, which I appreciate:

"Wars are planned by old men,in council rooms apart. They plan for greater armament, they map the battle chart, but: where sightless eyes stare out, beyond life's vanished joys, I've noticed,somehow, all the dead and mamed are hardly more than boys(Grantland Rice per our mutual friend, Sarah Rapp)."

Thanks Jack!

I must admit that I do not check authenticity of my posts. If anyone can tell me of a non-biased arbitrator, I will attempt to do so more regularly. I know of no such arbitrator for the internet.

Friday, May 19, 2017

P 51 WW II ... THX RON W!


Found this to be interesting and nostalgic. Alex

Who was the pilot?
This  1967 true  story is of an experience by a young 12 year old  lad in Kingston,  Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a  privately rebuilt  P-51 from WWII and its famous owner/pilot.
 In the  morning  sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our  little airport, sat a  majestic P-51. They said it had flown in  during the night from  some U.S. Airport, on its way to an air  show. The pilot had been  tired, so he just happened to choose Kingston for  his stop over.  It was to take to the air very soon. 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 pilot's  lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair  was gray and  tossed. It 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 tall, lanky man  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!", he said. (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  with an arrogant snarl. 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 ran 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  the runway 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   hellishly  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 just, more or less, asked the pilot  to return for an  impromptu air show!  The  controller  looked at us. "Well, 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 3,000 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 G's  and gravity. Her wing tips spilling  contrails of condensed air,
 prop-tips again supersonic. The burnished  bird blasted across  the eastern margin of the field shredding
 and tearing the  air. At  about 500  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  indelible 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 old American 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 loving
 reciprocal salute to  a Country, and especially to that old American  pilot: the  late-JIMMY STEWART (1908-1997), Actor, real  WWII Hero (Commander  of a US Army Air Force Bomber Wing stationed in  England), and a USAF  Reserves Brigadier General, who wove a wonderfully  fantastic memory  for a young Canadian boy that's lasted a  lifetime.

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