Jimmy and me

And like those belonging to other groups, we often send interesting emails to one another, especially those dealing with aviation.

Sandy Bredin, a retired United Airlines 747 captain, is a member of our group who recently forwarded an engaging story about actor Jimmy Stewart and how he inspired the life of a young girl at a local airport where he had made a public appearance. There are a few such stories circulating around the internet and—whether true or not—they are certainly heartwarming.

By 1940 Stewart had become one of Hollywood’s most popular actors and had won an Academy Award for best actor in The Philadelphia Story. One can only imagine how shocked MGM Studios was when Stewart announced that he was giving up acting for the time being and would be enlisting in the U.S. Army. This was nine months before Pearl Harbor, and Stewart became the first major U.S. movie star to volunteer to fight in World War II. Stewart became pilot qualified, flew 20 combat missions over Germany as the leader of a B–24 squadron, and was awarded two Distinguished Flying Crosses and France’s Croix de Guerre. He remained in the military throughout his post-war acting career and eventually was promoted to major general (two stars).

I, too, have a Jimmy Stewart story to tell, a personal one that I can assure you is true. Stewart used to keep his airplanes at the FBO in Santa Monica where I worked as a 17-year-old line boy while also working on my commercial pilot certificate and waiting to become old enough to take the flight test. Stewart’s airplanes were a P–51 Mustang, a Cessna 310, and an IFR-equipped Super Cub. (The P–51 had been used by Stewart’s friend, Joe DeBona, to win the 1949 Bendix Trophy Race.)

While on a weeklong trip in his 310, Stewart had left his car in my care. (Big mistake!) I was to park it in our community hangar. It was a gorgeous automobile, a sexy convertible, and I instead “borrowed” it to impress my date that evening. She was impressed all right, especially when I backed the car into the corner of a concrete barrier that put a sizeable crease in the rear bumper. (Don’t ask.) First thing the next morning I drove to a body shop for an emergency and pricey replacement of said bumper. The repair was thankfully completed before Stewart’s return.

When he finally taxied into our ramp at the end of his trip, I drove his car up to the 310 and helped him unload baggage. He was about to put something in the trunk when he stopped short and began staring at the back of his car. I then realized that the bumper outshined the rest of the vehicle. It definitely seemed out of place. Stewart must have recognized this, too, but didn’t say a word. He instead put his arm around my shoulder and said in that familiar, relaxed drawl, “How would you like to do me a favor?” “Sure,” I said. I was willing to say anything to distract him from staring at the car.

We walked toward the smaller of our two hangars, and he pushed open one of the sliding doors. There stood the replica of the Spirit of St. Louis that had been made for the movie in which he would be starring as Charles A. Lindbergh. “You know,” he continued, “I need someone reliable to start the engine once a week just to keep everything lubricated. You might even have to taxi the airplane around the airport while you’re doing that. Would you do that for me?” I obviously jumped at the chance and for about six months I was the envy of the airport. No, I did not take it for a joyride, but I did learn something about trust.

BarrySchiff.com