From: Chuck WITTEBORT ('61_)
Re: Guess Who This Old Pilot Was!
http://AlumniSandstorm.com/Xtra/Wit/190514-59yo_Pilot.htm
Great story:
Jimmy Stewart’s hometown was Indiana,
Pennsylvania about 30 miles from my hometown of
Punxsutawney. Stewart’s dad owned a hardware
store in Indiana, located by the railroad tracks.
Since Stewart’s Army Air Corps bomb group in
England flew B-24 Liberators, his dad had a model
of a B-24 mounted over a map of Europe in the
front window of the store. Strings ran from the
model to targets on the map Jimmy had bombed.
Since my dad was in the South Pacific at the
time, my mother saved our gas ration stamps for a
trip to Indiana. The “A” sticker on the
windshield authorized us only three gallons of
gas per week. We walked everywhere, because our
secondhand 1938 Buick was a gas hog – most cars
of that vintage were. I was thrilled to see the
display in the hardware store window. Jimmy
Stewart was certainly a family favorite actor.
The downside of this story is the town of Indiana
started a Jimmy Stewart Museum on the second
floor of a building on the main street. Stewart
was invited to come to Indiana for a “Jimmy
Stewart Day” to honor him. Anti-Vietnam war slobs
protested his appearance, because he had flown
one bombing mission over North Vietnam as a USAF
Reserve Brigadier General. Stewart was
disappointed and quickly returned to California.
To my knowledge he never publically commented
about the treatment he go in his hometown. The
museum was closed due to lack of interest and low
number of visitors. The “youngsters” never knew
they had a celebrity in their own town, probably
never saw a Jimmy Stewart movie and never knew of
his wartime service – or cared.
During the museum fiasco I was the Senior Advisor
to the 28Th Infantry Division of the Pennsylvania
Army National Guard. Since I drove 43,000 miles
per year visiting the 88 armories of the 28Th I
was always in a hurry to get to the next stop and
never took the time to see the museum. I very
much regret that now. The ant-war crowd never
knew they a bottled-in-bond hero of WWII vintage
and wouldn’t have cared if they did. James
Stewart retired from the USAF Reserve as a major
general.
Keep reading the below story
GUESS WHO THIS OLD PILOT WAS - it could be old
American pilot JIMMY STEWART?
P-51 MUSTANG. An absolutely outstanding true
tale that took place in 1967.
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. As he passed by I
noticed 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 as he smiled.. (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 can I?? 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 air-
frame 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 59 YEAR OLD PILOT
pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled
out of sight into the broken clouds and indelible
into my memory. Now the name of the old American
pilot was JIMMY STEWART age 59 years old -whoopee
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. Jimmy Stewart
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!
It may be beginning now with new leadership at
the helm. Until that time though, I'll just send
off this story. Call it a loving reciprocal
salute to our 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...
__________________________
-Chuck WITTEBORT ('61_)
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