There she was and she was a beauty. Polished aluminum gleaming in the sun. And I had eight silver dollars in my pocket. I was gonna fly!

            The airshow was always a big deal. Barnstorming acts from all over came to perform. There were military displays. One year they had a helicopter. Another time an airplane landed on a speeding car. The wing walker had been a disappointment. They just strapped him to a pole on top of a biplane and he spread his arms as it flew by. Hardly death-defying.

            This year was different. The Air National Guard brought in five Mustangs. They were lined up on the tarmac. Their pilots chatted with spectators. They were my heroes. I knew all about the P-51, even though they now called it the F-51. It had dominated the skies over Europe and drove the Messerschmitt and Focke Wolfe fighters away from the bombers. They practically won the War.  

Aviation was my passion. When the teacher wasn’t looking, I sent exotic paper airplanes flying around the classroom. Mine had tails on them and flew farther than anyone else’s. The money I earned from cutting grass went toward model airplane kits. Rubber-powered. I could never afford one with a real engine. I read all the books; 30 Seconds over Tokyo, Reach for the Sky, Yank in the RAF. I knew what a joystick was and ached to press the trigger as a MiG 15 slipped into my crosshairs. It is good for a boy to dream.

In truth, I had never even been in an airplane, except for that wrecked trainer inside the burned-out hanger on the other side of the field. Gordon Watson and I had snuck into the airport on a slow day and climbed into the cockpit. It had a joystick and rudder pedals, but the wings and tail were burnt off. The airport manager chased us off.

Today, however, I was going to fly in a real airplane. Frontier Airlines offered rides in one of their airliners for a mere eight bucks. I had just enough money for the ticket. With no money to spare, I snuck into the airshow by the old road leaving my bike by a hole in the fence. I was now a spectator at the 1955 Glasgow Airshow.

I walked right by the Mustangs. I could check them out later. The DC-3 airliner was just beyond the hangers. People were already clustered around buying tickets at a little booth. “I hope they don’t sell out.” I thought as I tapped my pocket to feel the eight silver dollars. I got in line behind an old cowboy with tobacco juice dripping from the corners of his mouth. He looked more nervous than I was. The plane only seated about 2 dozen passengers. I counted the number of folks in front of me. I would get on the first flight.

I admired the DC-3 as I waited. Twin engines. Big nine-cylinder radials. A side window on the cockpit was open. I could see what looked like the pilot checking the controls. “Must be a pre-flight check.” I thought. “Safety is good. DC-3s sometimes fly into mountains. Good thing there aren’t any mountains around here.”

The top half of the fuselage was painted white with a scalloped green stripe along the middle. The word “Frontier” was painted in red letters above the stripe. The lower half of the fuselage and the wings were bright aluminum. The cabin door opened downward to reveal a set of steps. I was close enough to see some scorching from the exhausts on an engine cowling. There were a couple of streaks of oil running across the wing. “Oh well, these things were tough enough for smokejumpers.” I thought.

Finally, it was my turn to buy my ticket. My eight dollars clinked as I placed them one at a time on the counter. The stewardess looked at me gently and said, “Are your parents with you?”

“Parents? What the hell, I’m almost 12 years old. What do I need parents for?” I thought.

“No.” I squeaked.

“Sorry, unaccompanied minors need parental permission.”

“What the hell?”  She was talking like a damn lawyer. Stewardesses are supposed to be kind and caring. This one wasn’t helpful.

“Can you get one of your parents to sign a permission slip?” She asked.

“Yes!” I exclaimed grabbing the paper she handed me. I thanked her and dashed off to my bike. I had a 2-mile ride each way and I needed to hurry.

Our town was in a valley just below the airport. My route would take me down Milk River Hill. Steep and fast. Down I went. I worked up the nerve to jump the dirt berm blocking the old road. The jump was exhilarating and I landed smoothly. I was hitting a pretty good clip when I reached the first paved street. I had two blocks of downhill before the street leveled out at the high school. I must have been doing over thirty as I sailed past it. The Highway Two intersection came up fast. I could ignore the stop sign but I’d have to slow down and turn there.

No cars. Everyone must be at the airshow. I turned onto the highway and headed for Underpass. Our town’s only traffic light was blinking red. No cars. I peddled on through. I had no time to waste.

Luckily, Mom was home when I pulled into the yard. “I thought so,” she said as I explained my problem. “Let me look at it.” She grabbed a fountain pen as she read it over. “Looks OK.” She printed my name on the form and signed it.

The easy part was over. I now had to race back to the airport. And it was all uphill. Puffing hard when I reached the dirt berm, I threw down the bike and ran to the airport. My heart sank as I saw the DC-3 taking off. “Had I missed the last flight? “

People were waiting near the ticket stand, but the Stewardess was gone. “Am I too late?” I asked someone.

“Nope. But the next flight is the last one. There might be a few tickets left.”

I waited anxiously at the counter. The Mustangs took off and dipped their wings as they buzzed the field. God, those Merlin engines were loud. After they were gone, the airliner returned and circled to land.

This time the Stewardess greeted me with a smile. “I see you have it.” she said reaching for the paper. She looked it over and took my money. “Enjoy your flight.” She purred as I got in line to board.

I was lucky to get a window seat just ahead of the wing. I fastened the seatbelt like a pro. Then the stewardess came by and tugged on the end to make it tight. The captain welcomed us aboard on the intercom. I looked out the window as the propeller on my side began to whir and turn. Then it stopped. “Why hadn’t the engine fired?” I wondered.

Then it began spinning again. There was a pop and a puff of smoke from the exhaust. The prop moved in jerks. The engine roared to life. All nine cylinders were firing evenly. Engine number two went through the same procedure. The whole plane vibrated as it came to life.

After the engines had warmed a bit, we taxied to the end of the runway. The powerful engines throbbed as the plane strained against the brakes.

Shush! We were off in a rush. The acceleration pressed me back into the seat. The clumps of withered bunch grass by the runway flashed by in a blur. The tires hammered over the cracks in the runway. The plane was doing about 60 MPH when the tail lifted. “Were we flying?” No, the wheels were still bumping over the cracks in the runway. Suddenly the bumping stopped. The ground was flashing by at about 100 MPH. Then the nose pointed toward the sky. The ground fell off. I looked at the wing. The end was gently flapping up and down. “Was this normal?” Then there was a clunk, followed quickly by another. “Was something wrong?” Nope, the landing gear had come up. We were now higher in the sky. The plane banked to the right, flew over some wheat fields, and passed directly over town. I could see our house. It was a little dot at the edge of town by the river. We banked and turned downstream. The river twisted and wound as it made its way through the valley. The massive cottonwoods lining the river bank seemed smaller and smaller. We climbed more and turned toward Fort Peck. Puffy white clouds floated by.

My boyhood dream had come true. Like the poet pilot, John Magee, I had “slipped the surly bonds of Earth”. Maybe someday I could “touch the face of God”[1]

LDT August 28, ‘24

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[1] High Flight. Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr. Royal Canadian Air Force. 1941.

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