SHORT STORY: The Knight’s Final Flight

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Arthritic knees creaked as the old man climbed onto the wing. This had been so much easier 70 years ago, he thought, as he carefully slid into the open cockpit of the P-51D Mustang fighter plane. Air and familiar smells filled his scarred lungs.

With eyes closed, he saw a war from long ago.

To his right sat his old helmet. It fit snuggly on his balding head. He adjusted his glasses and scanned all the instruments.

Just like riding a bike.

Two brown eyes stared back at him from the instrument panel. It was the beautiful face of his beloved late wife. He remembered when he had tacked the picture there on that dark day in France. Her love got him through the hard times: During the war –– and for the next 60 years. He knew he’d see her soon.

He flipped a couple of switches and the powerful Rolls Royce Merlin engine roared to life. It pulsed like the heartbeat of a lion. The Mustang was one of the premier fighters of World War II and he was one of the knights who flew it. Soaring through the skies over Europe, he had drawn blood twice and had shared credit for a third kill. Today’s flight would be more peaceful. No German ME-109s or flak. Just pink and white cloud tops.

The engine roared louder as he pushed the throttles forward. His heartbeat climbed with the tachometer. He checked the ailerons and rudder.

Cleared for take off.

As the plane rolled down the runway, he felt his body press into the seat. Few mortals could understand this kind of power. Faster, faster, faster — the plane leapt off the ground. You didn’t push the throttle of a Mustang all the way forward on takeoff because of the engine’s massive torque and giant propeller. He had seen fellow pilots actually flip their plane doing that. But once he was in the air, he slipped the throttle forward, pulled back on the stick and shot into the sky like a rocket.

The world seemed unusually vibrant. He saw a flock of white egrets flying above the bright green earth. Houses looked like toys. Earthly concerns faded as did his aches and pains. He banked the Mustang and flew West into the sun.

That’s when he saw them. There were three other Mustangs flying in formation off to the South. For some reason, his radio wasn’t working, but when they saw him, they joined up on his wing. It was 1945 all over again.

Below was a group of cars. Nearby a crowd of people in black surrounded a tent. The formation of Mustangs roared overhead and then circled back around for another pass. The old man led the formation and then shot skyward solo as they performed the missing man formation.

The other Mustangs formed back on his wing and the pilots individually saluted him. When he noticed his fuel gauge nearing empty, he saluted back and peeled off from the formation.

It was time to head home.

Fog shrouded the runway. White wisps tickled the asphalt’s black linear shape, giving it a mystical look. Flaps down. Gear down. Throttle back. The ground welcomed him. The Mustang couldn’t have been running any better.

Screech. Screech.

Two puffs as rubber met asphalt. Fog embraced him, making visibility difficult. He pointed the Mustang’s nose toward the bright light ahead.

As Mustang fell silent, the old man threw open the cockpit. He could feel the cool moisture blanket him. He heard a familiar voice call out to him.

“You’re home!”

Through the mist, a familiar figure ran toward his plane. It was his wife — just as she looked in the photo. He looked in his plane’s mirror and saw the World War II version of himself.

He hopped pain-free off the wing and into the arms of the love of his life. He turned around and looked at his beloved Mustang.

It had taken him home one last time.

In memory of Cary Salter.