“There were one-cushion pilots and two-cushion pilots, and if you didn’t use a dinghy buckled to the D-rings of your back parachute, there were three-cushion pilots. Early in 1944, the Air Corps decided that a man five feet eight inches or shorter was a hot fighter pilot. If he was taller, he was destined for multi-engined flying. Thus, if a fighter pilot was fortunate enough to be selected to fly the P-51 Mustang, the multiplicity of cushions was necessary to boost him high enough to see out of the massive bubble canopy.”
John A. De Vries was a member of the 40th Fighter Squadron, 35th Fighter Group in 1946, at Johnson Army Air Base in Japan the year after the Second World War ended. “The monsoon rains had come early that year and the base was socked in for the last half of September. I had plenty of time to study the lean and wiry Mustang before I flew it the first time. The squadron owned twenty-five of the bubble-canopied beauties, but only fourteen pilots were assigned, and there were plenty of ‘ponies’ to choose from. My choice was number 56—a K model. The P-51K differed from the D only in the particular that it had an Aero Products propeller instead of a Hamilton Standard.
“While the relentless rains fell, I studied the one and only P-51 flight manual available in the squadron. Not the usual ‘Dash One,’ the manual was a how-to-fly-it book, filled with cartoons and simple illustrations that emphasized the important factors for achieving maximum performance from the Mustang. Because the first flight would be solo, every word was important!
“The rains continued well into October, providing opportunity for three activities prior to checkout. And many, many hours were spent just sitting in the snug cockpit of No. 56 while the monsoon beat against the hangar roof. Gear handle, flap handle, throttle, mixture control, and propeller knob all fell closely at hand. The instrument panel was memorized as well as the armament control panel (which held switches for the six .50 caliber Brownings, the gunsight aiming point 16mm camera, the arming controls for the twin bomb or long-range tank wing pylons, and the rheostat that adjusted the intensity of the light in the reflector gunsight). The ‘triggers’ for all of the armament were clustered on the control stick hand grip. Soon I was able to pass the required ‘blindfold cockpit check’—touch any instrument or control instantly, without any visual reference.
“The squadron was only at half-strength as far as pilots were concerned. The crew-chief situation was even more desperate. There weren’t any. Two Master Sergeants made up the entire mainenance section. They, together with the North American Technical Representative for the Group, established a crew-chief school for pilots. For eight weeks, we new Mustang drivers attended classes every morning and worked on our own planes every afternoon. Changing the twenty-four spark plugs of the 1,400 hp, twelve-cylinder V-1650-7 Packard Merlin engine is a darn good way of finding out what goes on inside the Mustang. When I was ready to make my first P-51 flight, I really knew its innards.
“The weather began to clear enough for flying in the pattern. But before we new pilots were turned loose in our superbly maintained fighters (after all, we were our own maintenance crews), we had to go through the ordeal of rear-seat landings in the AT-6. The idea was that if you could land the skittery trainer from the back seat, you would do well ‘when it came time’ in the Mustang. However, the ‘powers that be’ failed to realize two important facts: the almost 1,000 hp difference in the engines of the two planes and that unless one were a giant, the overturn structure of the AT-6 effectively blanked out any forward vision.
“With six controlled crashes in the AT-6, I was really ready for my first Mustang ride. The walk-around inspection wasn’t really necessary. I knew every rivet and Dzus fastener on No. 56. To please the check pilot, I approached my mount from the left. No bird’s nests in the left wheel well; the sole landing light was firmly bolted inside. No oil dripping from the underside of the Merlin, and all of the cowl sections were firmly attached.
“The big, four-bladed Aero Products propeller was nick-free, and the carburetor intake under the nose was clear. No drips or loose Dzus fasteners on the right side of the nose, and the right tire (like the left) was brand new and properly inflated. The oleo strut spaced out to the proper hand-span, and the leading edge of the right wing was smooth. Aileron and the dropped flap looked ‘right,’ and the fuselage-mounted alternate static air source was clear of any foreign substances. The tail assembly looked OK—the fabric-covered movable surfaces were taut (later, the elevators would be replaced with metal-sheathed surfaces). A quick glance at the left aileron and flap, and then it was time!
“The hangar hours had proven to me that I was a two-cushion pilot. Two cushions and a dinghy (the CO2 cylinder which my gluteus maximus would soon learn to hate) propped me to the proper eye level—the center of my vision coincided with the pipper in the center of the gunsight (the P-51Ds in the squadron had gyro-stabilized K-14 sights.) With a casual familiarity born of many hours of cockpit time, I buckled myself in and began the round-the-cockpit check: ignition off, mixture-in-idle cutoff. “Capt. Bill Hook, the check pilot, pulled the prop through four blades to clear oil from the cylinders. The fuselage fuel tank (over the left shoulder) was filled to eighty-five gallons (each gallon was good for one minute’s flight). Flap handle up, carburetor air in the ‘ram’ position, trim set—5° of right rudder, ailerons at 0, and elevator at 2° nose down. The gear handle was checked down, and the propeller control was to be ‘full forward’ (full increase rpms).
“The throttle was opened to the ‘start’ position (about three-quarters of an inch forward). The altimeter was set to field elevation, and gyro instruments were uncaged. Control locks were released (a pin was pulled from the bracket that held the stick and rudder pedals, the bracket springing flat against the cockpit floorboards) and the rudder pedals adjusted (full back for us shorter pilots). With parking brakes set, both wing fuel tank levels were checked through their indicators in the floor (ninety-two gallons each), the supercharger switch was put in ‘auto,’ and the fuel selector handle was set to ‘fuselage’ and I was ready to start.
“With booster pumps on (to provide fuel pressure), magneto switch to ‘both,’ and battery and generator switches on, I had to pause for a moment and run the coolant doors open. Liquid-cooled, the Mustang had to have its radiator uncovered for starting. Although the doors in the rear belly of the P-51 were thermostatically controlled and operated automatically depending on the temperature of the 30% glycol—70% water coolant mixture, their functioning had to be checked manually on the ground before starting.
“A couple of tweaks of the primer switch and I raised the cover of the starter switch. Held in the ‘start’ position, the lean Mustang shuddered violently as the big prop turned over. After a few rumbles, the Merlin caught. I advanced the mixture to ‘run’ and the oil pressure rose to the proper 50 psi almost at once. The manual said to idle the engine at 1,200-1, 300 rpm. All gauges ‘in the green’ or coming up, the suction at 4.75 psi, and I was ready to taxi. Captain Hook, who had been kibitzing over my left shoulder during the starting sequence, then gave me a pat on the back and leaped to the ground. Thumbs-up—and he pulled the wheel chocks.
“Suddenly, I was alone in a rip-snorting bucking bronco. Easing the Mustang’s throttle open slightly, stick forward to unlock the tail wheel, I was on my own. Out of the parking area, I eased the stick back to lock the tail wheel in its 12° taxi arc (6° right and left). Lordy, that nose was l-o-n-g! Unless I S’d the bird, I couldn’t see anything in front of me. The positive action of the disc brakes helped me taxi.
“By the time I reached the run-up pad at the end of the runway, Hook had climbed the control tower and it was he who ‘talked’ me through the engine checks. Rpm to 2,300, check each magneto for not more than a 100 rpm drop (but no longer than fifteen seconds operation on a single magneto). Advance the throttle to thirty inches of mercury for one minute and exercise the propeller pitch-changing mechanism. A rapid glance around the cockpit—prop forward, supercharger auto, coolant auto, fuel booster on, hydraulic and suction pressures, oil pressure and temperature in the green, and I was ready to take the runway. Hook checked the pattern from his tower vantage point and gave the go-ahead.
“Gently, ever so gently, I advanced the big spade-grip throttle (‘liberated’ from a K-14-equipped D-model Mustang—a sexy touch in my N-9-equipped K). The Merlin wound up. At thirty inches, the bird was as docile as an AT-6; at forty inches it was like riding a tornado; at the full sixty-one inches of takeoff manifold pressure I was caught up in a hurricane! The tail came up voluntarily as I pumped rudders to keep up with the enormous torque of the mighty engine. I could see over the nose, and the far end of the runway was approaching at an alarming rate.
“Somewhere along the route I’d attained flying speed, so a tug on the stick and No. 56 was blasting heavenward. Behind my left hip was the gear handle and I clutched it before I exceeded the 225 mph gear-door critical speed. The Mustang did an involuntary dip as I raised the handle. Before I knew it I had reached 500 feet where the manual said I should throttle back to forty-six inches and pull the propeller control to 2,700 rpm for the climb.
“For the next hour and a half, I attempted to get ahead of my mount. The Mustang was a thinking pilot’s airplane: think about it, and the airplane did it. There was enough pressure in thought alone to make 30° banked turns; rolls took only a wee bit of fingertip pressure. There was no combination of throttle, propeller, and trim tabs that would permit the Mustang to fly straight and level by itself. Oh, maybe its altitude would hold for five seconds before a bump would disturb its equilibrium, but hands-off, and the fighter would establish a climbing or diving spiral. You had to fly the P-51 every second you sat in the cockpit.
“A series of stalls—power on and power off, flaps and gear up and down—were part of the first ride. At 10,000 feet the book said, throttle back, dump gear and flaps, and slow the P-51 down to 125 mph. Simulate a final landing approach, and at the ‘landing point,’ jam on full throttle. It made me a believer: with a full sixty-one inches, old No. 56 turned every way but loose! I think I definitely did an inverted snap roll. I know the sturdy wings flapped. The point of the self-demonstration was to convince the neophyte pilot that the go-handle on the left side of the cockpit was to be moved deliberately but, oh so gently, particularly when the bird was near the ground.
“Landing time was fast approaching, so I headed east toward Johnson. I dove down into the Tokyo Plain at an easy-to-obtain 450 mph. With all of that Plexiglas around my head, the visibility from the cockpit was superb. No worry about running into another airplane.
“I saw a field and let down to 400 feet—tactical traffic pattern altitude. The hot Mustang was difficult to slow, but by pulling back on the big spade-grip throttle we got down to 240 mph indicated as required for pattern entry. Turning north, I stabilized speed and altitude and lined up with the strip. As the end of the runway passed under the Mustang’s nose I pushed the propeller control to 2,700 rpm and honked the throttle back to idle. A sharp rightward and rearward tug on the stick, a boot of right rudder, and I was in a hairy chandelle. At its apex, I dumped gear and flaps (at about 180 mph) and continued around my 360-overhead pattern. Depressing the throttle-mounted microphone button, I called, ‘Base leg!’
“ ‘Don’t see you,’ said Captain Hook, calmly.
“I continued in my fighter pilot’s pattern. ‘Turning final,’ I announced into the VHF radio.
“ ‘Still don’t see ya’, Hook replied.
“It was then that I looked up. I was perfectly lined-up and at the proper approach speed of 120 mph. But I was landing at Yokota—three miles south of Johnson. Coolly, I yanked the gear and flaps up and slowly fed the 100-octane to the Merlin.
“De Vries, where the hell are you?’ Captain Hook blasted into the airwaves.
“I’m on one heck of a long final,’ I replied, trying to inject a note of confidence into my oxygen-mask microphone.
“The abortive approach to Yokota had been good practice. The traffic pattern and landing at Johnson were good—for a beginner. I didn’t notice, until I’d parked No. 56, the big prop grinding to a halt, that my flying suit was drenched and that there was a pool of sweat in my oxygen mask. The Mustang was a hot airplane in more ways than one! With only a couple of thin sheets of Dural between you and the Merlin, there was little protection from the engine’s heat. But the heat was a small price to pay for the spectacular performance of the P-51—and it was very welcome on the missions above 20,000 feet.
“The engine stopped; I dumped the flaps to relieve the pressure on the hydraulic system and proceeded, round-the-cockpit, to turn every switch off.
“After twenty hours in No. 56, with the basics mastered, flying the P-51 became sheer joy. The 40th was a tactical fighter squadron so we were called on to perform every conceivable fighter mission. Today, it may be firing the six 50s at a towed sleeve over the Mito gunnery range or dive-bombing and strafing ground targets.
“When the machine guns let loose, the Mustang shuddered and bucked like its namesake and the flying speed dropped ten miles an hour. With the 100-mil fixed gunsight, I qualified for aerial gunnery—put forty bullets out of 200 into a banner target. Dive-bombing was easy: each diverging slash mark painted on the upper surface of the wings was associated with a specific bombing run entry altitude. As the target disappeared under the appropriate slash mark, you’d begin a diving turn onto the bomb run. The ‘crack’ on top of the forward fuselage, where the two removable cowling panels met, was the ‘sighting line.’ Point the crack at the target, roll to keep it lined up and kill the effect of the wind, and, at the proper release altitude, push the bomb-release button atop the stick. The 100-pound practice bombs would ‘pickle’ right on the bulls-eye!
“I love the hairy Mustang. With a single exception, every pilot I know who flew the P-51 loved it. The one ‘sourpuss’ was a B-24 driver who experienced two dead-stick landings and one bailout in his first three Mustang rides. But, this one individual notwithstanding, the pilots of the 15,000-odd P-51s that rolled from the North American production lines at Inglewood and Tulsa thoroughly enjoyed the calm—and the panic—of their hours in the $50,000 ‘Pony’ ”
Colonel De Vries retired from the U.S. Air Force with near ly 5,000 flying hours in more than 100 types of military aircraft. He accumulated 800 flying hours in the Mustang.