October 12, 1945

With the war being over, my assignment was to ferry pursuit type aircraft from factories to the Reconstruction Finance Company in Walnut Ridge, Arkansas for mothballing. I truly enjoyed flying single engine fighter aircraft, but.often I would be gone a week or more just to get in a couple of hours flying time  I had been married to Lomie for a little more than nine months and I was gone from home more days than I had with her. .

On October 12, 1945 - I deadheaded in a C-47 to Hunter Field at Savannah, Georgia to pick up a P-51D to be flown to Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. Although I had less than 12 hours flying time in a P-51, it was my all time favorite airplane, I was looking forward to flying one again. Also, I thought it would give me the opportunity, to make a stop in Atlanta to call on Frances Littleton, Lomie’s best friend, who stood with us when we were married last December.

After landing at Hunter Field and signing the proper papers and filing my flight plan, I walked out to the beautiful new airplane that was waiting for me to fly it to Walnut Ridge. I slipped on my parachute and climbed into a Mustang’s cockpit for the first time in over three months and stared at an instrument panel turned unfamiliar with time. Though I was intimate with many airplanes, for the first time, it dawned on me that to be distant from the airplane one is about to fly does not invite longevity..

Tsik, tsik, tsit, and at last, a rumble from the P-51's Rolls Royce engine; the rpm turned round on its tiny dial. So much of flying is habit. Once one learns an airplane, our hands and eyes know how to make it fly long after our minds have forgotten. Had someone stood at the cockpit and asked me how to start the engine, I couldn’t have said..... only my hands that finished the starting sequence knew what they had done.

The perfume of burning high-octane fuel sifted into the cockpit ---- memories of a hundred other flights with it. But for some reason or other, this flight seemed special... as if I was trying to escape.... But escape from what? Is escaping and running away the meaning of flying?. And if I can escape, what am I to find????

I taxied to the runway; saw a few cars stop at the airport fence to watch. There wasn’t much for them to see. I pointed the Mustang’s nose down the white center line, locked the canopy and pressed full throttle. A few seconds later we were airborne. Wheels up..... with free sky and airspeed, flying the P-51 was a delight..

The flight to Atlanta was very pleasant. However, after getting clearance from Atlanta tower to land on runway 17, events for the worse began happening. I badly overshot the field on my landing attempt — something I didn’t recall ever doing before. I made a slick landing on my second attempt, but it did not erase my disgust and feeling of shame when I reported to operations. However, my spirits began to brighten a little with the thought of getting to see Frances again... I found a pay phone; placed a call to her — no answer — and fifteen minutes later; still no answer. After the third call without an answer, with deflated spirits again, I went to operations to file a flight plan – destination Walnut Ridge.

I taxied out to the runway, and got clearance for take-off. — sped down the runway — up and away. The remainder of the flight to Walnut Ridge was routine — but my joy of flying had diminished considerably. It was as if the go-around incident at Atlanta was sort of an omen, trying to tell me something.

After landing at Walnut Ridge and getting my delivery receipt, I deadheaded back to Romulus in a B-25 that was going that way. I signed in with Romulus operations, then before going home, I decided to check the bulletin board; something I very seldom did because most of the notices pertained to bachelor pilots. This time, however, staring me straight in the face, was a notice in bold letters: PILOTS ELIGIBLE FOR DISCHARGE. My name was on the list.. I asked myself, “Is that the answer to the Atlanta omen?”

“Know when enough is enough, Kenny. When an end is reached there will be a new beginning.” I knew at once, it was time for me to quit flying!

The P-51D was the last airplane I flew. I was separated from the service on October 30, 1945 at Chanute Field, Illinois — the very same place I enlisted nearly 6 years before. I had enough ‘leave time’ to make my official discharge date to read January 6.1946. My orders read: “At midnight on the day you return home, you will revert to inactive duty. Your commission will remain in force during the present emergency and up to six months thereafter unless sooner notified.”