As the noise of the DC-7 engines died, I could hear the high-pitch sound of screaming teenagers outside the aircraft door. I looked out but the sun was blinding me, I couldn’t see a thing.
‘Where am I?’ I asked Lieutenant Russell.
‘Prestwick’ shrilled the kids below. It meant nothing to me.
‘Scotland’ he whispered.
I slipped on my army cap, pulling the skip down to protect my eyes from the sun and stood there for a second wondering what to do, before lifting my right arm and saluting my new-found Scottish fans. They seemed to appreciate the gesture and in unison, the kids cried out: ‘We love you, Elvis’.
I shook my legs down those metal steps and the screaming got even louder. ‘This way’ said the Military Police, pointing me towards the waiting cars.
‘The hell, I will. I’ve got work to do.’ I said, turning towards the teenage fans cordoned off behind a steel barricade. ‘It’s now or never.’
I swung those hips into gear and gyrated over to those pretty gals. I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, three hundred Scottish girls all shouting at once in their funny accents, but I smiled and signed autographs for them in front of a photographer, hey that’s what I do. It had been a while since I’d been with fans and it felt good, The MPs cried ‘Sergeant Presley, we really must go.’
As I left those kids, I told them that I’d love to come back to Scotland. Maybe do a European tour.
Sadly, I’d never make it back, I’d never get the chance to repay those fans, but I hope that they know that I thought about them often. Whenever someone mentioned Scotland, I’d see their happy smiling faces and hear their funny accents shouting ‘Prestwick’ and ‘We love you, Elvis’. They were on my mind when I left the building in 1977.