The Man Called Brown Condor (7 page)

Robert shouted, “You ready?”

John nodded his head and held up a thumb. He whispered to the breeze, “I been ready for this all my life.” His senses were more alive than they had ever been. He felt the gentle rocking of the plane, the vibrations of the engine, the smell of hot oil wafting in the propeller wash—and the beating of his own heart.

Robert smoothly pushed the throttle all the way forward, feeding in right rudder to counteract the torque of the engine and the twisting flow of the propeller wash. It was the only way to hold a straight takeoff run. The wooden propeller bit into the air, washing the myriad odors of the roaring engine back over John as they rushed at the wind.

John tightly griped the sides of the cockpit, his view restricted by the plane's long nose still angled skyward. As the WACO accelerated, Robert eased the stick slightly forward to lift the tail. Looking forward between the high-mounted radiator and the top of the engine cowl, Johnny could now see ahead, see the grass turn into a green blur as it rushed ever faster beneath the plane carrying them ever closer to the trees bordering the field, trees scantily dressed in their new leaves of spring. The wheels now bumped and bounced along on the unimproved pasture. Robert eased back on the stick. The bouncing ceased as the WACO, its red wings turning golden in the haze of the late afternoon sun, climbed into the sky. The ride through the still air was as smooth as a mouse's belly.

John watched the field and forest drop away. Everything below, the hangar, the cars, the people, appeared miniature while the Earth itself expanded in every direction. He had never forgotten the excitement and joy of the child he had been that day long ago when he ran down the beach after the first airplane he had ever seen. That same childlike wonder and excitement rushed over him, filling him, fulfilling him.

They climbed 3,500 feet. John was glad he had worn a sweater and jacket. The crisp air was much cooler than it had been on the ground. Below he could see newly plowed fields, small lakes, and forest. To the northeast was the haze and industrial smoke of Detroit. On the far horizon, John could just make out Lake Erie.

The smoothness of the flight was interrupted by the rocking of the wings from side to side followed by smoothness followed again by the rocking of the wings. Johnny glanced down in the cockpit to see the stick wiggling from side to side. He tried to look back at Robert but his seat belt was too tight for him to twist around enough to see him. The stick wiggled again, this time with more authority. It finally dawned on Johnny,
He wants me to take it!

John relaxed his grip on the sides of the cockpit and placed his right hand on the unfamiliar control stick. He wiggled it side to side. Instantly the smooth sure path of flight changed to a weaving, dipping track like that of a gentle roller coaster ride. The WACO was in unsteady, unsure, but willing hands. John Robinson felt clumsy and embarrassed by his awkward attempt to hold the craft steady. He could keep the wings fairly level but he could not keep the nose from climbing and dropping. He always seemed to be behind the plane, catching up only to over-control.

Then realization struck him.
I'm flying this thing! God Almighty! I'm flying!
He tried a turn using just the stick to bank the wings. The plane seemed to slide a little sideways. Then he remembered the rudder and put his feet on the bar and tried again using stick and rudder. He got a pretty good turn except he did not hold a steady altitude. When he turned one way the plane climbed and when he turned the other way he lost altitude. The path was still that of a gentle roller coaster, up a little, down a little, but he was flying.
Not too smooth but it's not falling out of the sky.

The stick wiggled in his hand. John let go and held both hands up in the slipstream before taking hold of the sides of the cockpit once again. The flight steadied into a graceful, sure path as Robert took control.

The nose dropped smoothly. Wind began to whistle past the bracing wires between the wings as speed increased in a dive. Johnny's eyes widened at the sight of the earth coming up toward him. He tightened his grip on the sides of the cockpit. A few moments later, he was pressed deep into his seat as Robert pulled back on the stick bringing the plane's nose sharply up. As the horizon again came into view, John, still pressed firmly into his seat, felt and heard the engine roar to full throttle. The nose rose steeply past the horizon, past the vertical. The world was upside down. John was momentarily light in his seat as Robert relaxed a little back pressure over the top of a graceful loop.
Oh! Lord Jesus!
As the plane screamed down the back side of the loop he shouted into the wind, “God Almighty!” Once again he was pressed into his seat and felt his cheeks sag a little as Robert pulled out of the back side of the loop to level flight.

“Yeah!
Oh yeah
!” John hollered. He held up both hands with his thumbs straight up. Robert laughed and performed another loop followed by a sweeping barrel roll.

After nearly an hour, the sun was low on the horizon when they entered the landing pattern and flew downwind parallel to the field. John looked down to see the Jenny taxiing toward the hangar as the last of Percy's passengers moved along the fence toward their car. Robert gently banked the WACO, first turning base and spilling altitude, then turning upwind to line up on final for the landing. With the engine throttled back to idle, Robert brought the WACO over the fence. Easing the stick back, he held the plane just off the ground. As speed bled off, the WACO settled gently onto the grass, the main wheels and tail skid touching simultaneously in a perfect three-point landing. After a short roll, Robert taxied to the hangar, swinging around in one last blast of the propeller so that the tail faced the opening as he shut down the engine. The propeller ticked over a last few revolutions. Then silence, sudden and complete.

John sat in the cockpit almost afraid to move least he lose the moment and awake from a dream. His ears rang from the engine's roar. His body relaxed in the absence of movement and vibration. His goggles now felt uncomfortably tight and his bare head tingled from the wind buffet. His nostrils filled with odors emanating from the hot engine, dormant except for an occasional “tick” common to the cooling of a hot engine pot.

“Robinson? Robinson, are you all right?”

“What? Oh! Yes, sir!” Johnny replied. “I don't think I'm ever gonna get this smile off my face. I mean, there's nothing like it, is there? Nothing as free.”

Robert grinned. “Now get down from there and help put this thing in the hangar.”

Together they pushed the WACO tail first into the hangar and walked around the corner of the building in time to see Percy driving off with the young Sunday School teacher. Robert walked toward the motorbike parked near John's car.

“Hold on, Mr. Robert.” Out of gratitude and respect for the man who had taken him on his first flight, John had reverted to his Southern roots and the way he would have addressed a white man back home. “Do you think I could learn to fly? I mean, well, I know I can learn, but can I get someone to teach me?”

“Sure. Why not?” Robert looked back at John. “Oh, I see.” Robert paused. “You learned to be a mechanic.”

“Yeah, but that was at a Negro college. Do you know any Negroes enrolled in flying school? Any being taught by private lessons?”

“Can't say I've heard of any. That doesn't mean there aren't any. I have a feeling that if you want to learn badly enough, you'll somehow find a way. I did even though my father tried every way he could to stop me. He owns a factory that makes coffins. He thinks I should, in his words, ‘make the damn things, not fly one.' Every flying school in Detroit owes money to one bank or another. Dad happens to be on the board of the largest bank in the city. He and friends at the other banks made it clear to the established flying schools that they were not to teach me if they wanted to keep a line of credit. Airplanes are expensive. None of the schools would even talk to me. I did just what you did today. I came out to the country and found Percy. He didn't owe any bank because no bank would lend him money on that old wreck of his. I had a little money my grandfather left me so he taught me to fly.”

“Trouble for you is Percy is leaving. The Jenny is outdated. Rumor has it that new government regulations are going to bar Jennies from any commercial use. They say the old Jenny won't pass the new government design and licensing criteria. All the schools are getting newer planes. Percy can't compete and he's broke. He's taken a job flying the mail out of New York. I think he's crazy. About twenty mail pilots were killed this past winter. Percy says he has to do that or give up flying and get a real job. I don't know what to tell you.”

“Well, what about you? I can pay you. Would you teach me?”

“Me? I'm afraid I can't do that, John.”

“Sure. I understand. Wouldn't look good to your flying buddies and society friends.” Johnny turned to open the door of his car.

“Now you hold on. If you're thinking I'm handing you the nigger boy bit, you're out of line. I'll tell you something else. If every time you don't get the chance to do something, you think it's because you're colored, you're going to wind up using that as a crutch not to try. Sure, some people won't give you a chance, but some will. You'll just have to find them. As for me, there are two reasons I can't teach you. One, I don't have an instructor's ticket. Even if I could give you flying lessons, they wouldn't mean anything to the government and they wouldn't give you a license. Two, my WACO and I are leaving for Texas. I've got a job with a college buddy who's drilling for oil down there. That sounds better to me than making coffins. I think you owe me an apology, John. I'm the one that just took you flying, remember?”

Chastised, Johnny said, “I'm sorry. It's just that I been dreaming 'bout flying since I was a kid. I heard plenty of those ‘Willie, get away from that wheelbarrow, you don't know nothing 'bout machinery” kind of jokes when I first started work as a mechanic. I took it cause I had to if I wanted to work. I guess I proved them wrong. I got white folks come to me now. I just don't like facing the fact that I gotta go through all that again with airplanes. I gotta fly. I'll do anything. I'll knock on hangar doors till my fists bleed.”

“Look,” Robert said. “You got a good paying job in Detroit. Do you think you could get one in Chicago?”

“Maybe. There are plenty automobiles there need fixing, I reckon. But why? Things are going good for me here.”

“I was just thinking along your line, John. If you're going to get turned down by a lot of flying schools, you might as well start with one of the best. That's the Curtiss-Wright School of Aeronautics in Chicago. I think they teach aviation mechanics there, too. Maybe you could work days and go to their night ground school. There's a lot to learn before you ever get in an airplane. If you can get through a school like that, you'll be more likely to get some kind of aircraft mechanic or maybe flying job. That's an idea you can chew on, anyway.”

Robert put his weight down on the foot crank of his motorbike. After a couple of attempts, it fired up. He put on a pair of goggles. Before leaving, he turned back to Robinson. “I think you have what it takes, Robinson. I really do.”

John nodded his head in thanks. “I don't think you know what flying with you has meant to me. Just saying thank you is nowhere near enough, but I don't know how else to say it.”

Robert grinned. “Oh I know what it meant. There's not a pilot alive who doesn't remember his first flight.” He switched on his bike's headlight, nodded a smile, and disappeared down the dirt road into the falling darkness.

John sat alone on the running board of his car. In the stillness of the early evening he could hear all the sounds of the country, so different from the noise of the city. Away from the lights, he could see stars popping out as darkness descended. It was spring and awakening insects chirped their mating calls. A cow bellowed somewhere in the distance. Nearby, a sudden whirring announced some winged night fowl was on the hunt. It was a peaceful place to get his thoughts together. There was no way to justify, much less explain to anyone, why he would even think of giving up his job to go to Chicago on the chance he might somehow get into not just a flying school, but the best in the Midwest. His friends would think him a fool.

Sitting there he came to two conclusions. The first was that his Momma was right a long time ago when she had said that it was foolish for a black man to think about flying. The second was that as soon as his boss could find a replacement, he was going to take his foolish self to Chicago. He shook his head, laughed, and climbed into his car to drive back to Detroit.

***

Back at the shop on Monday, he was taking a break out front when a shiny new Pierce-Arrow sedan stalled on the street right in front of him. The driver tried several times to restart the car without success. The back seat passenger and driver, both black men, got out and walked to the front of the car. The driver opened the hood and both driver and passenger stood in the street pondering the situation. John walked out to them, introduced himself as a mechanic, and asked if he could help.

The passenger turned out to be a doctor and the owner of the car. The three men pushed the car to the side of the street, and then the doctor, without so much as a thank-you, told John, “No one is to touch this car until I can get my mechanic here. Is there a telephone nearby? I need a taxi.”

Although not the least bit pleased at being dismissed in favor of some mechanic from clear across town, Robinson told the doctor his boss had a taxi company and there was one ready to leave the shop. The doctor returned to his car, told his chauffeur to wait for the mechanic, and, glancing at Robinson, repeated his instructions that no one was to touch a thing on his car. A few minutes later he left in the taxi.