The rudder trim is supposed to be 6 degrees right on takeoff.

PAGE SIX

Burchinal's Mustang is a P-51 D and is painted in the colors of Col. J.J. Christiansen of the 479th Fighter Group, 455th Fighter Squadron, Eighth Air Force, European Theater of Operations. Christiansen and his Louie IV were shot down over France in 1944, but they are well remembered. No chronicle of the Mustang is ever complete without at least one picture of the colorful Louie IV.

One of the additional advantages of flying with junior Burchinal is that you are bound to be personally involved in some of the never-ending maintenance that warbirds need. This is especially important to the guy who intends to buy one and it is interesting to any redblooded warbird nut. Besides learning how to service the Mustang, checking coolant, oil, leaks, and so forth, junior fills you in on all the little details that are nice to know if you want to operate a warbird.

As it was bound to, the big day finally arrived. Today I was going to launch in the Mustang. Since there's only one set of controls in the Mustang, you only get one go at it, and it had better be good. All that Junior can do is explain procedures thoroughly and have you ride around in the back for a while getting a feel of it, and then let you go. He put me in the back and we went out to see how the aircraft does certain things. We did stalls and torque rolls, none of which really helped me because I was just a passenger and I couldn't appreciate what was necessary to keep things under control. He did impress me by slowing to 100 mph and adding power until he was out of right rudder and the airplane was still slewing left. The Mustang has a power-on Vmc just like a twin-engine airplane, but it only has one engine. With a lot of power, it takes speed to make the rudder effective enough to overcome torque and P-factor.

We headed for Cox Field, Burchinal's practice airport, and I knew things were getting close. He shot a couple of landings with me perched on his shoulder like a gremlin, trying to learn as much as I could secondhand. He even had me reach around him and make turns with ailerons only so that control effectiveness wouldn't come as a surprise when I made my first flight. He talked to me-correction, yelled to me-all the way through his approaches trying to tell me what was happening. He flew the approaches exactly as we had in the SNJ except that the numbers were much faster.

Then it happened. He pulled over to the side, climbed out, and said go fly it—just as if he were soloing a kid in a Cherokee. He said something about me doing fine, but I couldn't be sure because my heartbeat drowned him and the Merlin out completely. Actually, I was quite calm, all things considered. We had talked, and trained, and flown, aiming everything at this moment, and I felt prepared.

The Mustang taxied easily into position, squarely between the two white centerlines. Prop forward, flaps up, boost on, tank on right. A thousand hangar tales raced through my mind at one time—maybe I was a little scared. Torque rolls, screaming swerves, 1,450 horsepower. I once again noticed where the horizon split the spinner for future reference, and started moving the throttle slowly forward. I really didn't mean to start the takeoff roll, but I couldn't think of anything else to check. I was out of excuses and eager to fly.

Visibility was excellent and I began feeding power in more rapidly because I was eating up runway like crazy. More left arm, more power, more noise. Anything you hear about a Mustang's cockpit noise can be believed. It ceased to be sound and became a pressure, forcing against my eardrums. My right foot nervously twitched at the right rudder, coiled, wired, positively aching to trounce the rudder to the floor the minute the long skinny snoot started swerving, as I knew it must. Thirty inches, thirty-five inches, forty inches. My right arm tired of trying to hold the tail on the ground. It was going to come up despite anything I could do, so I neutralized the stick and the tail blew off the ground.

As the nose leveled out, howling its way toward the other end of the runway, it was suddenly as if I were standing up in the airplane; the visibility was tremendous. My eyes darted back and forth from one side to the next, keeping the long line of Dzus fasteners in the center of the cowl lined up with the expansion joints in the pavement.

At 45 inches, it suddenly felt as if it were dragging me forward and I was being rammed toward the tail, a helpless passenger strapped to a cannon ball that was going to pull me through space. Noise, noise, noise! At 50 inches, 55 inches, my foot still pressed lightly, but firmly on the right rudder.

When was I going to get the chance to play Mustang driver and fight to keep the nose straight, mashing the rudder to the floor, using brake when the rudder was gone? When was the torque going to become the uncontrollable genie all the big guys talk about? Suddenly, it was off the ground. I'm flying a P-51! Whooee! They could hear me in the next county.

Back to business. By the time I was off the ground and had a chance to check the airspeed, I was already passing through 140 mph. The program called for me to stay in the pattern for the first flight, leaving the gear down. On the next flight, I would clean it up and go out into the area to hunt FWs. Bringing the power back to Burchinal's supereconomy climb settings of 29 inches and 1850 rpm, I held 130 mph and banked easily left onto crosswind. At this low speed the controls are extremely light, maybe even a little soft. Even though I was terribly slow, the airplane felt extremely solid and comfortable-and so strangely familiar.

I was sitting on top of the world-in my own private little bubble. In level flight on downwind, visibility was totally unrestricted, but things were getting a little busy for sight-seeing. Flying an aircraft with a wing loading of over 45 pounds per square foot and a general reputation of gliding like a cast-iron frisbee, I was really afraid to reduce power. I considered leaving 30 inches on and driving it onto the ground, but I knew that the second I lowered the nose I'd be charging around at 200 mph. The Burchinal Method is three-point or forget it, so I figured I'd stay with the program and have at it. The airspeed showed 130 mph when I ran my 35th GUMP check.

I gingerly brought the power back a bit, and reached back with my left hand to shove the flaps down two notches. The nose tried to pitch down, but the stick forces are so light that my right hand automatically came back, maintaining an attitude that came out as 130 mph while I rolled in enough trim to hold it. I kept an anxious vigil - airspeed, manifold pressure, altitude. I was still carrying about 20 inches when I turned base and slowed to 120 mph. I kept waiting. When was the bottom going to fall out like a real fighter? So far it had acted like a lady, flying as if it were on rails. Roll out on final, twisting my arm again to grab the rest of the flaps.

Oh, oh, here it comes. I rolled a little up trim and jumped up to the throttle as we sink just a little low. I figured I had to catch it or it would fall to the ground like the proverbial rock. I was afraid of the throttle. It's a dynamite plunger that all the books say will roll you on your back if you even touch it. But I was low and I had to add power. I eased the throttle forward, intending to keep my arm moving as fast as necessary to keep from bouncing off the Texas landscape, right leg ready to jump. The left hand started moving and the sink stopped just as quickly. What's this? It flies on final just like an airplane.

Well, the ground was coming up and the worst was probably yet to come.