“Come on, Percy dear, all six of us want a ride.” She stepped down from the car and came through the gate followed by three other girls and two young men.
“Sue said you shot down a German in 1918. Is that true, Mr. Percy?”
Percy tried to not look embarrassed. The more he tried, the closer his face came to matching his flaming red hair. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped at the oil stains on his face and hands. “Young lady, ’tis too pretty an afternoon to talk about such things. Sue, why don’t the lot of you draw straws to see in what order you’ll be flying while we get some fuel.” Percy motioned to Robert and Johnny to follow him over to where two metal barrels were lying on a wooden rack. He picked up a five-gallon can equipped with a spout and began filling it from the petcock of one of the barrels.
“Come on,” Johnny said. “I mean, what about our deal? I’ve done my part.”
“So you have,” replied Percy. “And I’ll take you up, but I can’t do it right now. Can’t you see the situation here? I mean, I can’t take you for a ride and make them sit over there and wait. Can’t you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand what you’re saying. You’re telling me you can’t make that nice white Sunday School class wait around while you take a nigger for a ride.”
Percy turned blood red in the face, and Robert stepped between the two men.
Percy hissed, “Damn you, boy. Can’t you understand anything? If I hadn’t given you my word on this deal, I’d split your head wide open for a crack like that. Look at ’em. Six people over there, each one with five dollars for a ride. That’s thirty dollars! I can buy a brand new surplus OX5 engine for fifty dollars. Hell, there are more people waiting over there than I flew all last week because of that damn radiator.”
Johnny looked past Robert straight at Percy.
“Look,” said Percy, “I got six dollars in my pocket. You take all six dollars for fixing the engine or you come back when I ain’t got a line of paying passengers waiting.”
Johnny looked more humble than angry. “I don’t want your money. I want to fly. I want to fly more than all those people over there. I been waiting to fly all my life.”
“And I need that thirty dollars to stay in business.”
“Okay. Both of you listen,” Robert J. Williamson III broke in. “Percy, you go fly the Sunday School, and I’ll take our friend John here up in my plane in exchange for two hours of lessons in stunt flying from you.” He turned to John. “Robinson, will you settle for thirty minutes or so with me for free instead of ten minutes with him even though I’m too young to have any Germans to my credit?”
All three men exchanged glances. Robert was the first to smile. Percy looked quizzically at Johnny, who was looking over his shoulder at the red biplane waiting in the hangar.
In spite of the hurt and anger he had felt moments ago, he broke into a wide grin and laughed out loud. “You white boys just made yourselves a deal.”
Robert and John helped Percy top off the Jenny and strap his first passenger into the front cockpit. The warm engine caught on the first swing of the prop. To a round of applause, the Jenny waddled off over the grass, bumping and bouncing as it gained speed. After only a few hundred feet it lifted into the air, labored to clear the trees at the end of the field, and turned gracefully away, free and clear.
“All right, John, help me roll out the WACO.” Robert motioned for John to move behind the right wing and push on the outer wing strut while he did the same on the left. Compared to the maze of bracing wires and multiple inter-plane struts that braced the wings of the Jenny, the WACO-9 was a sleek, uncluttered design. As did many such post-war designs, the WACO used the same Army surplus, ninety horsepower, Curtiss OX5 engine as the Jenny. The reason was simple. Although it was heavy, 390 pounds not including the radiator, it was both plentiful and cheap. Compared to the Jenny, the WACO-9 was smaller, lighter, and had a strong steel-tube fuselage, all of which gave it far better performance. With its glossy new crimson paint, it was beautiful. Robert Williamson had used $2,475.50 of the rather sizable sum his grandfather left him to pay for it. Of the ninety-one hours of flying time to his credit, the last forty-seven had been logged in the WACO.
“John, walk around her with me and I’ll explain anything you want to know while I check things out. I haven’t had one problem with her yet. I had six forced landings in that damn Jenny, four of them with Percy and two by myself. That taught me to always keep an eye out for a clear place to land.” He pointed to the radiator. Unlike the Jenny that had the radiator attached to the front of the engine, the WACO’s radiator was mounted just under the center of the upper wing. “Hasn’t leaked a drop yet. Of course if it does, hot water will blow back on the passenger and pilot, but mounted up there it likely won’t short out the ignition. It does interfere with forward visibility, you have to look under it and over the nose, but you get used to it. ”
Robinson asked so many questions that Robert finally protested, “If we don’t get going, Percy will have us fueling up the Jenny again and acting as ticket takers. Besides, for a fellow who’s never flown, you seem to know a lot about planes.”
“I guess I been reading ’bout airplanes as long as I can remember, but this is as close to one I’ve ever been. Now it’s really gonna happen. I’m gonna fly.”
Robert grinned at him. “Not if you don’t get up in that front cockpit. Step up on that black step pad there on the wing and swing your legs on in. Put on that pair of goggles hanging on the throttle. I don’t have an extra helmet. Here, I’ll give you a hand with your seat belt.”
When Robert was satisfied that John wouldn’t fall out, he instructed him on what to touch and what not to touch and explained the flight controls. Then he reached in the rear cockpit to make sure the magneto switch was off and the throttle closed. He walked around front, turned the propeller through eight blades, walked back around, climbed up on the wing, reached in the cockpit, cracked the throttle open a bit, and switched on the single magneto.
“John, remember, when she catches you close the throttle like I showed you and hold the stick all the way back. Otherwise this thing might run over me and take you God knows where. Now, you got it?”
“I got it!” John was more excited than he had ever been in his life. He was also a little afraid, but he managed to look calm. At least he thought so.
“Relax, John. If you don’t loosen your grip on that stick, your hand is going to turn as white as mine.” With that, Robert jumped off the wing and walked around front.
“Here goes.” Robert grabbed the propeller blade with the fingers of both hands, called, “Contact!” and gave the blade a hefty swing, careful to stay clear of its arc. The plane rocked slightly but nothing else happened. The second attempt woke up the OX5. It spit, belched a little smoke, and settled down to behave itself with a smooth, rhythmic 450 revolutions a minute.
Robert climbed back up on the wing and leaned over Robinson. “While we’re up I’m going to let you try your hand. If I wiggle the stick like this,” he moved the stick quickly side to side several times, “it means you can take over and fly. If I wiggle it while you have it, you let go so I can take it back. When that happens I want to see both your hands held high to let me know you understand. I don’t want you freezing up with a death grip on the controls. That could kill us both. Understand?”
John nodded that he did.
Robert continued. “I won’t be able to hear you, so if everything is all right after we do a maneuver, put your thumb up like this. If you don’t like it, shake your head from side to side. If you want to come down, point down and I’ll bring us back and land. You got it?”
John started to answer, then grinned and held his thumb up. Robert slapped him on his shoulder, climbed into the rear cockpit, fastened his seat belt, buckled on his flying helmet, and pulled his goggles over his eyes. He checked the oil pressure instrument. Satisfied, Robert taxied the plane toward the downwind end of the field. There he stopped and te
sted the controls. (A magneto check was not needed. Unlike modern aircraft, the OX5 did not have dual ignition. If it was running smoothly, then the single ignition was working. You didn’t make a static power run-up check either—there were no brakes on the WACO. Instead of a tail wheel it had a tail skid, the only thing to slow it down on the ground.) Robert twisted his neck around to check the sky for traffic. He saw Percy lined up on final approach for a landing. The Jenny floated over them, settled to the ground, and taxied toward the eager group of waiting passengers.
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?”
The Man Called Brown Condor Page 5
