All Blood Runs Red

by Phil Keith

  The appearance was scheduled for the following week, on December 22, a sort of Christmas gift to his audience. That would give time for Garroway’s staff to check out the elevator operator’s tale—just in case. After Van Doren, you could never be too careful.

  Bullard’s claims did check out as facts, of course, and millions of faithful viewers soon discovered Bullard’s incredible story. Finally, in his sixty-fifth year, Eugene James Bullard was to have the proverbial “fifteen minutes of fame” in his own country. It was almost exactly that amount of time as Bullard, in his Rockefeller Center elevator operator’s uniform, sat and chatted, on live TV, with Dave Garroway. As requested, he did, indeed, bring along a plaque upon which were mounted all fifteen of the medals he had won fighting for France. Bullard and Garroway talked about his life as a young man in Georgia, then his adventures as a stowaway, entertainer, prize fighter, soldier, fighter pilot, and longtime Paris jazzman and nightclub impresario.3

  The Today appearance fostered a number of other on-camera interviews, mostly for the New York market. Everyone wanted a piece of the humble elevator operator who, in reality, had been a highly decorated war hero, boxer, combat pilot, and friend to everyone who had been anyone in the antebellum club scene of Paris in the Jazz Age. Interestingly, the interviewers always wanted him in his elevator operator’s uniform—not his swaggering pilot’s outfit or his Foreign Legionnaire’s garb. The story was “better,” more “American,” if the audience saw him attired as a humble everyman who had suddenly appeared in their midst as a full-blown hero.

  Bullard was not compensated for any of these appearances, and he continued to subsist on his elevator operator’s pay. The momentary fame did, however, inspire him to bring forward another idea that he had been secretly nurturing for many years: an autobiography. This idea was also being pushed by his old friend Ted Parsons, by then a retired US Navy rear admiral. Parsons had actually been egging him on for years to tell his story, but Bullard had always demurred.

  Then, with his small dose of national exposure, it seemed a more plausible and perhaps even a necessary project. There was only one challenge: Bullard had overcome his lack of a formal education along the way through plain hard work and incredible experiences, but he could not write that well in English. His French was more than passable, but his English skills were lacking.

  Good fortune intervened. A church friend introduced Bullard to Louise Fox Connell, a freelance writer and playwright who had written extensively for such publications as Glamour, Parents Magazine, Vogue, Mademoiselle, and the Delineator. Louise, a white woman, was also a staunch advocate for civil rights and racial equality and had joined the ACLU, NAACP, and the Congress of Racial Equality, known as CORE. Encouraging black writers and activists was part of her skill set.

  Connell was fascinated by the Eugene Bullard story. Whether she knew or suspected that part of it was “fanciful” she never said, but she was convinced that most of it was real. She agreed to work with Bullard and help him organize his papers, notes, and other material. Over a series of sit-downs, he told her everything he remembered (and maybe even then some). Connell condensed it all into a thirteen-page typed outline. She gave the outline back to Bullard and encouraged him to tackle each bullet point one by one until, together, they could flesh out the entire story.

  When Bullard asked her how much she would charge him for the project, she replied, “Nothing.” It was more important to her, she insisted, to battle racism through stories like Bullard’s than to receive compensation.

  He labored for many months, handwriting in his large, florid script, on legal pads. Connell would polish up what she was given and send her work to a typist—a typist who she paid. Connell also pounded the pavement to find someone who would publish the book. In this she was far less successful than in the creation of the manuscript, but it was not for lack of trying.

  Connell persuaded several publishers to take a look at the work in progress, but she was turned down everywhere. One publisher told her that the story “made the daydreams of Walter Mitty look pale by comparison.” It was just too unbelievable. Another drawback, Connell was told, was that so much of the story took place in France, and the French had soured on their relationship with America during the early 1960s. Even after World War II, and even after the United States had assisted the French military with massive amounts of aid during their struggles with the Viet Minh and the disaster of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, de Gaulle’s “France First” stance was turning off most Americans. Despite the continued popularity of the retired Jackie Robinson and the emergence of young black actors and entertainers like Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte, America at the dawn of the ’60s was simply not interested in inspirational tales of courageous black men who had fought for another country.

  * * *

  Bullard was disappointed, but as usual, he was not about to give up. And one day in 1960, he received what he called “the greatest honor of his life.” It began when an ornately handwritten envelope arrived at his apartment in early April. Curious, he carefully slit open the envelope and pulled out an invitation card that read: “General de Gaulle, President of the French Republic, and Madame de Gaulle, request Mssr. Eugene Jacques Bullard4 to do them the honor of being present at the reception which they are giving at the Armory of the Seventh Infantry Regiment, 643 Park Avenue, at 4:45 p.m., Tuesday, April 26th.”

  Bullard’s delight could hardly be measured. Proudly wearing all fifteen of his French decorations, including the newly awarded Légion d’Honneur, he arrived on time in his neatly pressed khaki dress uniform of the French Foreign Legion.

  President de Gaulle had been in the United States to meet with President Dwight Eisenhower, during the latter’s last year in office. De Gaulle wanted to strategize with his old World War II compatriot concerning an upcoming summit conference with Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, scheduled to be held in Paris that spring. De Gaulle also wanted to revisit New York City, where he had been so warmly received when World War II was still raging and victory was not yet assured. Madame de Gaulle also had designs on visiting several swanky Fifth Avenue boutiques.

  Over one million people lined the boulevards, cheering, as de Gaulle was swept through the city via motorcade. He gave speeches at City Hall and the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Shortly after 6:00 p.m. he entered the Seventh Regiment Armory where five thousand members of the French community erupted into applause and cheers. Three hundred children culled from local French schools offered a rousing rendition of “La Marseillaise,” which ended with another round of thunderous applause.

  After another brief speech, his doleful eyes scanned the crowd. They settled on a table near the dais where a number of VIPS had been seated. De Gaulle stepped away and headed for a beaming, bespectacled black man with a wide row of dazzling medals on his chest.

  The towering de Gaulle marched straight to Bullard and stood in front of him. The old soldier and pilot, wide-eyed and incredulous, leaped to his feet, snapped to rigid attention, and saluted. The general, as any proper French officer would do, saluted back, then stuck out his right hand.

  “Sergeant Bullard, I believe?” President de Gaulle announced in his booming baritone.

  “Oui, mon General, je suis Bullard,” Bullard replied, extending his hand to take the general’s proffered grip.

  De Gaulle grabbed the gnarled hand in a vice grip and used it to pull the startled old warrior into a bear hug, complete with a congratulatory pounding on the back.

  “Tout notre pays est dans votre dette” (All of our country is in your debt), the president told Bullard, looking straight into his eyes. “Merci, Sergeant.”

  Tears began to form in the corners of those eyes and Bullard could only whisper softly, “Merci, mon general. Merci beaucoup.”

  The rest of the evening was a whirl of conversations and music and accolades for those who were considered without question to be heroes of France. The evening o
ffered the opportunity for Bullard to be reunited with a friend from Paris days, a still-beautiful woman who had also been recognized for her service during the war. In its coverage of the event, the New York Amsterdam News, headquartered in Harlem, included a photograph of Bullard embracing and being kissed by Josephine Baker.

  * * *

  1 Actually, the first African American fighter pilot. The first black aviator was Emory Mallick, in 1912.

  2 Eleanor Roosevelt, “My Day,” New York, NY, syndicated column, October 31, 1959.

  3 Sadly, no recordings, video or audio, of the broadcast survive. There are several publicity photos, however, and a couple are included in this book.

  4 The de Gaulles used the French version of “James,” as in “Jacques.”

  27

  THE HERO GOES HOME

  Not long after the marvelous experience of being honored by President de Gaulle, Bullard began experiencing pains in his abdomen. He lost his appetite and began losing weight—and by this point in his life, he did not have much weight to spare. He basically ignored the discomforts figuring, after a long life of stress and worry, he probably had ulcers. He began watching what he ate and he drank less wine. The pains subsided. Bullard did not think much more if it.

  He continued his work schedule and responded, with gusto, to the many invitations he began receiving, because of his newfound notoriety, to address various civic and fraternal groups, mostly on behalf of the old Escadrille or the veterans of France Forever. Toward the end of 1960, Bullard received a very welcome surprise visitor: Major Roger Bader, who was by then retired Colonel Bader. The two old comrades, who had weathered the lead-filled storms of Verdun in World War I and then the shell-shocked days of Orléans in the next war, dined at Bullard’s apartment in Harlem, took walks around Manhattan, and spent hours poring over Bullard’s old maps of Fort Duaumont. It was a truly happy occasion.

  In April 1961, Bullard was invited to take part in a Franco-American military memorial celebration at the Lafayette Statue on Union Square. He wore his uniform, of course—much easier to fit into because of the weight loss—and was honored to be chosen as a flag bearer for the ceremonies. According to one attendee, as he clasped the furled French tricolor “his huge black fist was an object of wide-eyed curiosity.” There is a picture of Bullard at this memorial, all decked out in his khakis and medals, an image that turned out to be the very last photograph to be taken of Eugene Bullard.

  The pains in his abdomen returned, this time with a vengeance, and they did not go away, no matter what he tried. His daughters finally convinced him to get checked out at Metropolitan Hospital in East Harlem (now Metropolitan Hospital Center) at 1st Avenue and 97th Street. He resisted for so long mainly out of concern for what the doctor might cost. He was still working at age sixty-five as he needed to pay the rent. He could have obtained some welfare and disability benefits, plus some food stamp assistance, but he would not even consider it. Bullard was a proud man and would not accept any compensation he had not earned.

  He entered the hospital on August 18, 1961. After some tests and the elimination of several ordinary causes, his physician recommended an exploratory surgery. The results were very discouraging: Bullard had an advanced and aggressive form of intestinal cancer. It was determined that further surgeries would likely prove ineffective. There might be a bit of relief, perhaps some prolonging of life, with a series of new medications the doctor could recommend, but the prognosis was basically “attend to your affairs.”

  Bullard took the news with equanimity. He had escaped death so many times in his life that he truly felt lucky to have survived as long as he had. He professed no fear: “God is my friend,” he told his daughters. “He has always been my friend. The sooner I die, the sooner the suffering will be over.” Never one for much religion, these sentiments may seem curious; but, apparently, Bullard had found some way to make peace with his Maker and to embrace at least a modicum of solid Catholicism.

  In many ways, Bullard was finally in a good place, at least mentally and psychologically, if not physically. Both Jacqueline and Lolita were married and he had grandchildren. He was a familiar and respected figure in his neighborhood. While most of his adventures and achievements were only then becoming known and appreciated in the United States, he had earned a measure of international recognition. Most enjoyable, of course, was to have been lauded, several times, as a hero of France. He had done his best to lead an honorable life as a father and a man and a black man who had resisted racism at every opportunity. He had friendships that had lasted for decades.

  Bullard was being told that only a few grains of sand remained in the hourglass of his life. He had no complaints. His illness was only bringing him closer to the God he had finally come to accept. Yes, it was also the God who had taken his young son away, but maybe that same God could finally reunite them. At least, that was the hope he expressed to his living children.

  Between the end of August and the beginning of October a steady stream of visitors and friends paraded in and out of Metropolitan Hospital. For the most part, Bullard rested comfortably, propped up in his bed, sporting a pair of yellow pajamas. There were always flowers and gifts of food (which he could not eat, for the most part), and the occasional smuggled glass of wine, as well as plenty of laughter. Sadness was not allowed in his room.

  Louise Connell brought him a final draft of his typed autobiography which brightened his eyes and gave him enormous pleasure. He was still hopeful that he could live to see it published, but both knew that this was a rapidly diminishing possibility. Bullard urged Louise to contact his old friend Langston Hughes, suggesting that the former Le Grand Duc dishwasher, who had evolved into a famous poet, would find a way to get it published. (For whatever reasons, Hughes declined to get involved.)

  By the early part of October, Bullard had slipped into the final sequence of his terminal illness. He managed a smile as he told one visitor, “Man, if I had as many needles sticking out of me as I’ve (had) stuck in me, I’d look like a porcupine.”

  He was able to celebrate his sixty-sixth birthday on October 9, but when Connell visited him on the twelfth, he was in and out of consciousness and the doctors told her he was at the end. She sat by his bed and cried quietly. He must have heard the sobbing. He awoke and stared at her. The staff had inserted a breathing tube to assist his respiration. He reached up and pulled out the tube so he could speak.

  He smiled at Louise and uttered what would be his last words: “Don’t fret, honey. It’s easy.” At 10:10 p.m., Bullard breathed his last.

  In accordance with his final wishes, Eugene James Bullard was laid out in a freshly pressed French Legionnaire’s uniform. His expensive brass coffin (paid for by his surviving pals in the Lafayette Escadrille) was covered with the French Tricolor. A funeral mass was held on October 17, 1961 at St. Vincent de Paul Church. Hundreds of mourners attended, including members of France Forever, the Federation of French War Veterans, the Verdun Society and American Legion Post Number 1.

  Bullard was interred in a simple plot in the Federation of French War Veterans Cemetery in Flushing, Queens. It is marked by a one-foot-square slab bearing his name and the years of his birth and death.

  * * *

  Ninety-nine years to the day after Bullard was born, then-Governor Zell Miller proclaimed October 9, 1994, to be “Eugene Bullard Day” in Georgia. The state from which he had fled as an adolescent, seeking a life free of racism, had progressed to when it could recognize a black native son and his many accomplishments.

  As proud as he would have been of “Eugene Bullard Day,” an event that had taken place three weeks earlier would have given him even greater satisfaction. He finally became an American military pilot and commissioned officer. On September 14, 1994, he was posthumously appointed a second lieutenant in the United States Air Force. The ceremony included a special guest who had accompanied his
daughter, Jacqueline: Richard Reid, who had joined the US Air Force, served honorably and retired as a master sergeant. He was Bullard’s grandson.

  Today, a floor-to-ceiling glass case at the US Air Force Museum in Dayton, Ohio, proudly displays a life-size mannequin of Eugene Bullard decked out in a replica flying suit of the Lafayette Flying Corps. Also on display are all fifteen of his decorations from the government of France and a copy of his USAF 2nd Lieutenant’s commission. The National Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, has a bust of Bullard along with a recitation of his many accomplishments.

  He had, indeed, come a long way since, as a youngster, with a dollar and a half in his pocket, he had raced down those dusty railroad tracks knowing that his father, Big Chief Ox, would soon be in hot pursuit. Eugene Bullard had become a hero of France...and, finally, America too.

  * * *

  AUTHOR NOTE

  One would think that a man who during his sixty-six years became the first African American combat pilot, a well-known nightclub impresario in Paris, championship-caliber prizefighter, French Resistance spy, civil rights pioneer, and much-decorated hero in two wars would have a shelf of books written about him. There certainly should have been at least one screen version of his saga by now, “in a theater near you.” This was not so with Eugene Bullard, however. The lack of published material on this multitalented man can be attributed to several possible causes, not the least of which were racism, his many years away from America as an expatriate, and Bullard’s own modest nature. He was proud of his achievements, sure, but not devoted to trumpeting the many amazing acts of his life. He was, more than anything else, a plucky survivor who was just as surprised by his own accomplishments as anyone.