Wwwwwwwrrrrrrrrroooooooowwwwwww!
Can anything equal the sound of an Allison V-12 engine roaring by?
Well, maybe the sound of a
Rolls-Royce Merlin or a Pratt and Whitney.
But all three at once? Unsurpassable.
(On second thought, a deep-toned steam
train whistle is probably better. But I digress.)
Little bitty Lewiston, Idaho isn’t
known for much these days. Ask residents of the town where I live, and their
first thoughts of the city to the south will mention two things: the Lewiston Grade
(beautiful winding climb in the summer, nightmare of Route 95 in the winter)
and the stink of the Clearwater Paper plant that pervades downtown.
But it does have an airport. And this weekend,
the tiny Nez Perce County aerodrome has a bunch of propellers all over
it. The annual "Radials 'n' Rivers" event brings a score or more of prop planes to
town, and I went down Saturday to see some vintage craft. There were the usual
trainers, a bunch of biplanes, an old chrome-colored passenger plane. But the
cream of the crop? The World War II machines: most of the major land-based American
craft of that conflict were represented, and all of them airworthy!
I started the event by pulling Red
into the grassy overflow parking and sauntering past the long line for the shuttles.
The runways were literally on the other side of the fence. What could they
possibly need shuttles for? Besides, I needed the exercise. I got it, too; it
turns out the planes were all parked on the apron on the far side of the runways, so
that a two-mile loop around the end was needed—and the beautiful,
partly-cloudy, 80-plus degree day meant that would be a bit of a sweaty trip.
Thankfully, a church acquaintance driving by offered a ride in the back of his
truck. I love small towns!
On arrival at the apron, my first choice
was to join a stretching, sinuous line to climb inside the great workhorse of
WWII—the B-17 Flying Fortress. Carrying a crew of ten, thirteen .50-caliber
machine guns and up to 8,000 pounds of bombs, this was the plane that flew deep
into Nazi territory during daylight hours to destroy factories and other
strategic targets. If you’ve ever watched any amount of documentary footage
from WWII, I am certain you’ve seen at least one B-17. The inside was cramped,
particularly the foot-wide walkway through the bomb bay—the portly gentleman
ahead of me nearly became a permanent addition to the plane. But he squirmed
through and I got this lovely shot out one of the waist guns.
Next was the B-24—the Liberator. A
slightly smaller bomber than her more famous cousin, the B-17, she had a
greater range and was adapted to far more uses, from antisubmarine warfare to cargo
transport over the Himalayas. Her bomb bay catwalk was even narrower—a mere
nine inches wide. Actor Jimmy Stewart flew 20-plus missions as a B-24 pilot in
Europe.
A Mitchell B-25 was also out on the
apron, but they had it fired up and running rides for the spectators, at the
rate of $450 dollars for a half-hour trip. Would have been tempting if I was
independently wealthy.
But the highlight of the day was at
1430, when the all the fighters present were put in the air for a grand fly-by.
Two P-40 Warhawks (one of our early fighters), two P-51 Mustangs (late war long-range
fighters), and the only surviving airworthy P-47 Thunderbolt, the Dottie Mae.
The Dottie Mae has a fascinating story. On May 8th, 1945—V-E
Day—she was being flown in the Alps to drop leaflets on an Allied prisoner of
war camp, letting them know that ground troops were on the way to liberate
it. The pilot misjudged his altitude above a clear mountain lake and crashed
into it, making the Dottie Mae the last aircraft lost in the European theater.
(The pilot jumped out after it hit and was saved by two Austrian girls--in a
canoe.) For seventy years, it lay at the bottom of the lake in over two hundred
feet of water. In 2005, an expedition financed by an American WWII vet found it
and raised it, and after a ten-year restoration (most of the missing parts had
to be made by hand) it now flies once again—its original pilot was even on hand
to witness the inaugural flight. This air festival was only the third time it
had been flown publicly. Its Pratt and Whitney engine (the same one used in the
Navy’s Hellcats and Corsairs) had a noticeably lower, smoother tone than the
other fighters flying today. Nicknamed “Jugs” due to their milk-bottle shape,
the P-47 carried eight machine guns and could load a few bombs as well, making
it a favorite ground-interdiction fighter. They took out trains, trucks, or
other treetop-level targets.
The planes flew by individually at first, then in groups, and finally did a few passes with all five in formation. And the sound of those engines roaring by in unison is something I hope I won’t forget.
The planes flew by individually at first, then in groups, and finally did a few passes with all five in formation. And the sound of those engines roaring by in unison is something I hope I won’t forget.
Then it was time for the long walk
back around, the drive home (during which I picked up an exquisite Papa John’s
pizza for only eight bucks—thanks, junk mail coupons!), and a relaxed evening
of watching old documentary footage of those planes in their service period.
Plainly, a good old Saturday,
indeed.
