The blue Helldiver — a WW II single-engine dive bomber — was taxiing placidly down the runway when its wing abruptly dipped. The airplane came to a halt at an unsettling angle. Its right wheel had strayed off the paved runway and onto its border, which had been turned into mush by a lengthy spate of monsoon-like rains.

“This is wonderful!” I thought. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that might have happened in real life. This is so authentic!”

Thus began the Victory at Sea airshow, held recently at the Fagen Fighters WW II Museum located near Granite Falls. The show’s troubles began the night before, when a thunderstorm punched through the area and swept several vintage aircraft off the tarmac and onto the grassy median.

I felt a lot of empathy for the Helldiver’s pilot because I’d had a similar experience a few days earlier. I was mowing the ditch with my John Deere “3010” tractor and buried its front wheels so deep in the mud that the resulting gash could be geologically classified as a canyon.

A single piece of heavy equipment was brought to bear to extricate the “3010” but an armada of equipment was needed to extract the Helldiver. Apparently, the process wasn’t as simple as chaining the airplane to a large traction machine and summarily yanking it from the mud. The priceless antique aircraft had to be carefully lifted, and plywood placed under its wheel and over the muddy rut. Good thing I wasn’t in charge.

Whenever I’m faced with an airport delay, I like to wander around a bit. I soon encountered an elderly couple who were decked out in authentic WW II military garb.

I struck up a conversation with them and learned that they are Don and Jackie Wicklund of Prior Lake. They were part of the reenactor troupe who would be conducting an educational WW II presentation that afternoon.

“My father was the bombardier on a B-17 bomber named Day’s Pay,” Jackie said. “It was based in England and flew dozens of missions over Germany. These are his lieutenant bars on my shoulders.”

I asked Jackie if her father had shared any of his war experiences.

“Oh, yeah!” she replied. “They were my bedtime stories when I was a girl. One of the most memorable was how, during one of their bombing runs, an 88-millimeter anti-aircraft artillery shell punched a hole through the wing. Luckily, the shell didn’t hit anything vital in the wing, and it didn’t explode. Some of the crewmen were unaware of what had happened until they landed and saw that perfectly round hole.”

I noted that Don was wearing a single stripe, denoting the rank of private while Jackie was a lieutenant.

“She has always outranked me,” Don grinned. “It’s been that way for more than fifty years.”

Jackie smiled and added, “And that’s how it should be!”

The roar of massive and powerful radial engines filled the air. Being an avid airhead — I’m drawn to aircraft like the jelly side of a dropped piece of toast is drawn to the floor — I quickly thanked Don and Jackie for keeping history alive and joined the throng of spectators at the flightline.

Watching those old warbirds start their engines was an exercise in vicarious anxiety. The propellor would slowly begin to turn, and the engine would cough and pop and sputter.

Would it go?

It didn’t sound hopeful. I wanted to shout at the pilots, “Pump the accelerator and give it more choke!”

But the pilots didn’t need my advice and within a few seconds the engine would come to life — sort of. To my untrained ears, it sounded like they were in dire need of a tune-up. A humungous cloud of blue smoke would billow from the exhaust, reminding me that I needed to check the oil on the “3010.”

After a few moments, the pilot would bump up the throttle and the engine would smooth out. By the time each plane began its takeoff roll, the engine would be bellowing its own sweet song.

The only thing better than listening to a 2,000-horsepower radial engine roaring by is listening to several of them at once. During the formation flybys, I could feel the engines’ powerful vibrations deep in my chest. I — along with a thousand fellow airheads — spent an enjoyable afternoon watching old warbirds swooping low overhead

The Helldiver eventually made it into the air, but only after its crew used water and an oversized toothbrush to carefully clear the mud from its tire treads. Which reminds me: I need to get a hammer and a chisel and clean out the front tires on my “3010.”

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com