Ode on a Canadian Warbird story

I was enjoying this read….

It was impossible to greet the epochal advent of the jet fighter with anything but contempt. I happened to grow up between 1939 and 1945 in a small Canadian town, but any kid born and raised anywhere during World War II knows in his bones that a true warplane wears matte paint the color of mud and swamp water; has exhaust stacks, glycol tanks, air scoops, and a cage-like cockpit; and is pulled ahead by a huge rotating disk. On startup, it snorts awake and coughs and sputters and shoots fire and smoke from its exhaust pipes; the noise smooths into a rising roar on takeoff as the landing gear swings up and it barely clears the tree line. When it comes home to land, its wings wigwag a bit and the tail sinks and the airplane bounces a couple of times on its fat black tires before rolling to a quick halt, emitting one final snort as the prop ticks to a stop.

Where was the romance in a shiny silver pipe that sounded like a vacuum cleaner and flew so fast and so high you could barely even see it?

But then the author went and spoiled it…

that the majestic-sounding British Boulton-Paul Defiant, its only armament a fixed, forward-firing gun turret amidships

But it’s a good read and can be found at Smithsonian’s Air & Space website.