This most definitely isn't Junior's. I just put it in to remind you what a pretty airplane the Mustang can be.

I went back and made several more gear-down circuits of the field, none of the landings being as good or as satisfying as that first one. Then Junior told me to clean it up and go play with the Messerschmitts.

Tidying up the cockpit after that first takeoff, I found I had forgotten to use the recommended 6 degrees right rudder trim, but I had applied power so slowly that the torque/P-factor buildup had been negligible. In subsequent takeoffs, I started moving the throttle faster and faster, trying to see at what point things would become scary.

I must admit that I wasn't really aware of what was happening on that first takeoff, so I started noticing more and more things as I experimented. For instance, I found that I didn't have to rush the power very much before my right foot became very useful. Also, at around 40 inches there was a definite change in sound and torque, something like a governor surge that increased the acceleration and usually swung the nose left. It was easily corrected, however. Actually, it looks as if you'd have to either let the hammer down fairly fast and hard, or hoist the tail too soon, or both, to get into completely uncontrollable trouble. The airplane will fly itself off at almost any power setting. I took off once at 40 to 45 inches, so there are plenty of ways to keep yourself out of trouble, providing you're trained right and are treating the craft like the fighter it is.

With 50 to 55 inches for takeoff, the airplane seemed to accelerate almost immediately to 140 mph and then jumped to 200 mph when I brought the gear up. I had always wondered how a Mustang gear handle felt when you moved it, and now I know—it requires almost no pressure to pull in and up. Burchinal climbs and cruises all his airplanes and his pick-up truck at 29 inches and 1850 rpm to keep gas consumption down. When I used this power setting and a climb speed of 175 mph I was showing only about 1,500 fpm rate of climb. I knew Mustangs were supposed to climb better than that, so I played with power settings up to around 35 inches, where I got a solid 2,200 fpm. Junior had cautioned me to stay below 35 inches because anything higher was starting to work the engine too hard.

In the climbs, the nose covers everything ahead, so I S-turned constantly to make sure I didn't slice into a Cessna or something. It took a while to get used to the fact that I was climbing at 175 mph indicated, which was faster than the top speeds of most of the aircraft I normally fly. I kept climbing because I wanted all the air I could get between Texas and me, when I started playing.

Leveling off at 7,000 feet, I let the airspeed build and set up the traditional 29/1850 power combination. As the speed came up, I had to use more and more forward trim to keep from gaining altitude. When the airspeed indicator finally stabilized, it showed about 240 mph, which was almost 260 true, and I was at a power setting so low it wasn't even on the power charts. Again, I played with different power settings up to 35 inches and got up to 265 IAS in level flight, which is around 305 mph true! I had to constantly keep looking around to keep my bearings because the towns in Texas seemed to be rather close together at that kind of speed.

As speeds go up, so do control pressures, but they never get heavy. They always stay on the stiffish, but very effective, side. It's an intoxicating feeling to look around, feeling nearly naked because of the bubble canopy, monitoring airspeeds most of us never see, and looking down at my right hand with the trigger under the index finger. I've played fighter pilot plenty of times in homebuilts, Swifts, Zlins, and other spiffy little airplanes, but this time I wasn't playing. When I moved the stick, it was a Mustang that responded, not a Swift. When I dropped the nose and the speed leaped up to 300 IAS, that was mph, not kilometers as in the Zlin.

Junior had positively forbid my doing any aerobatics until I had more time in the airplane—a frustrating, but smart piece of advice. So, I had to satisfy myself with screaming, cheeksagging turns and whatever else I could think of that couldn't be called aerobatics. It was really fun to drop the nose just a little, get 300 on the gauge and pull up into a chandelle that would gain as much as 3,000 feet before I'd level out at 125 mph.

After I felt that I could control the airplane and I knew how it flew, I decided to find out how it didn't fly—I was going to stall it. Somehow, just the idea of stalling a Mustang was scary. I had plenty of altitude, and she had proven capable of being tamed so I went ahead and did the pilot report thing. I decided to do power—off straight-ahead stalls first, with nothing hanging out, no gear or flaps. I brought the power back and pulled the nose up slowly. Just in the process of slowing down, I picked up 1,000 feet! Down to 130, 115, 105.

Suddenly, as 100 mph came up, I was looking nearly straight down at Texas, in a diving left hand turn. The nose attitude wasn't as steep as it had first appeared, but there was no warning other than a slight looseness of the controls. The stall broke, dropped the left wing, and pointed the nose down, almost as fast as I could think about it. I was careful to add power smoothly and pulled out after dropping less than 1,500 feet. With a little practice, I found I could stall it and add just enough power to gain speed and altitude, but not introduce torque problems and keep the altitude loss to around 600 feet or even less.

As I dirtied up the airplane, the stall speed came down and it began to give a little warning. With everything hanging out, the stall still broke fairly cleanly and rolled left, but there was a little buffeting and a definite sloppiness to the elevator. At all slow flight speeds, right up to stall, the airplane was completely stable and easy to control. Even though the controls were a little soft, they were effective, and the airplane felt fine at almost any speed. It looked as if I could make a go-round at 30-35 inches and 100 mph.

I dived and swooped and twisted and turned, and it was all I could do to keep it right side up. It just seemed to whisper in my ear, "Go ahead, roll me," but junior had his reasons for prohibiting aerobatics and I knew I had heard the siren call of the Mustang. I could see that this airplane could easily install false confidence in the inexperienced pilot, such as myself, and he could get himself into serious trouble. Knowing I could resist the siren call only so long, I decided to take junior's plaything home before I backed myself into a corner. Besides, I hadn't seen a single FW-190.

I was at 6,000 feet and I thought I'd never get that thing down from altitude. At 175 mph it has a glide ratio of nearly 15:1; it will glide three miles for every thousand feet of altitude. I tried dropping the nose and diving down at 250 mph, but then found when I got to the altitude I wanted, the airplane didn't want to slow down, and I'd gain altitude trying to bring the nose up. So, this is what a high-performance airplane is like. The Mustang is so slippery, that you really have to work to get it down to 200 mph. Under 200 mph, it's fairly easy to control the speed, but above 200, even the slightest jerk on the stick picks up 500 feet and may not even budge the airspeed. I made lots and lots of circles getting down to pattern altitude.

As soon as I had 170 mph and pattern altitude, I dropped the gear so that it would be easier to slow down. The gears falls into place with a very audible and easily felt "clunk, clunk." Even if the gear hydraulic system failed, I could let it free fall into place by pulling the hydraulic release handle on the lower panel.

Once down to 150 mph, the landing was just a repeat performance of the last ones, except it was a little crosswind and I was a little too fast. I didn't kill the power soon enough and came over the fence at around 115 mph, which was too fast. I was floating like a Taylorcraft and I couldn't get into the three-point position without ballooning, so I wheel-landed it and got on the brakes.

On the main gear, it's dead stable, although you feel as if you pick up 20 mph when you hit because it doesn't slow down at all. The tail is heavy enough that you can drop it early if you want, which I did, and depend on the tailwheel steering. Even though I was fast, it still slowed fast enough that 5,000 feet was plenty of runway. Now, if I'd wanted to make the middle intersection, I might have been in trouble.

So, now I've done it. I've flown a Mustang in all regimes of flight and played fighter pilot as much as I dare. What are my initial impressions? I have to be careful what I say because I was probably about as well trained as neophyte civilian types get before they fly Mustangs. I had 10 hours of fairly concentrated SNJ work and hours and hours of talking and studying, not to mention additional hours sitting in the cockpit, learning the airplane.

What are my impressions? Surprise, relief, exhilaration, and even disappointment. I was surprised at how easy and how stable the airplane was. It was a relief after battling; with the SNJ. The airplane is exhilarating in every phase of its performance and is still docile enough that with sufficient training it is entirely safe. Disappointment? Yes, maybe a little, because the Mustang wasn't nearly the killer I had expected and read about, and I know that even though I now belong to a fairly elite group, I know deep inside that it was nothing but opportunity that put me in that group, not talent.

The Mustang was built to be flown by well-trained 200-hour pilots. I repeat, well trained, and if a pilot gets that same sort of training, the Mustang will be a piece of cake. On the other hand, if you approach the Mustang figuring you can whip it because you have thousands of hours in Bonanzas and the like, it'll chase you all over the airport. The P-51 has characteristics that nothing in civilian aviation can prepare you for.

A military airplane is a military airplane, and it takes a certain amount of military type training in an SNJ or T-6 to make you safe enough to fly it. Although I'm competent enough in almost all civilian tailwheel types, that 10 hours in the SNJ is probably the best insurance for flying warbirds.

Want to fly a fighter? Going to buy a fighter? Used to fly them and want another go at them? Whatever your reasons, whatever your desires, the Flying Tigers Air Museum is the place to go. I don't know of another place in the world where you can plunk down your piggybank and be trained to fly this type of airplane-and be trained well. Bearcat, Mustang, Corsair, Lightning, Mitchell—take your pick.

Looking back I realize his maintenance was such that it was a miracle he never bent an airplane. On the other hand, if you wanted to fly any of his airplanes, you could. No amount of money can buy you that kind of experience anywhere on the planet today. But, at least I've been there and done that and no one can take that away from me.

This has nothing to do with the above story, but it's such a great original WWII picture of a P-51B/C, I just had to share it. Note the Malcom hood. Love it!

For lots more pilot reports like this one go to PILOT REPORTS.