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All Blood Runs Red
Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator
by
Henry Scott Harris
Copyright 2012 Henry Scott Harris,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1299-3
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
DEDICATION
To Shirley –
With you, anything is possible
Without you, nothing is possible
To Jane –
For making it happen
To my readers:
The use of the “N” word was a must. It was required to present to you the prevailing historical bigotry, the inbred hate and the inhumane treatment that Gene, his family and so many other Black Americans endured. The word has not been used for dramatic impact, but as reality.
Through five years of intensive research and developing a unique series of imaginary conversations and interviews with a man I never met, Gene Bullard and I became friends. Though he died in 1961, I know I heard his voice and you too will hear and see him as he guides you and shares his incredible lifetime.
There were times where there was only a hint, a remark or a small notation of an incident, hence , I took literary license to imagine it.
My grateful thanks to the National Museum of the United States Air Force, for their cooperation in furnishing material and affording permission to use the Museum’s photograph file, including the cover picture of Gene Bullard in the World War One uniform of the French Foreign Legion.
PROLOGUE
The scene: Gunter Air Force Museum, Alabama
Two men were disparaging a large glass corner display. “What bullshit! Just ain’t never happened. Hell, no damn nigger was a World War One pilot. They are too dumb. And those medals, he musta stole them.” The other man joined in. “Couldn’t fly his way outta paper bag. Those sons of bitches don’t have a brain big enough. Hey, monkeys don’t fly. Guess dressed that dummy for political reasons. Screw them all. Let’s get outta here.”
Intrigued, I walked to the glass case and, sure enough, there was a life-size, black male mannequin, dressed in a World War One uniform. The banner read: EUGENE JACQUES BULLARD, THE FIRST BLACK AMERICAN MILITARY AVIATOR. Whoa, the first? Was that right? That means he led the way before the Tuskegee Airmen of World War II. Curious, I wanted more information.
Eugene Jacques Bullard was a hero of two wars. He was born in 1894 and his extraordinary journey began when he ran away from his home in Columbus, Georgia at the age eight, seeking equality and liberty in France. Against all odds and obstacles, he made it. How he made it is a story of guts and courage.
This book is the result of my curiosity about this remarkable man. Once started, I couldn’t stop. It took five years of researching American and French documents, military records, State of Georgia data, U. S. Air Force materials, and various archives. It is a trip into his reality in the form of my “interviews” with Eugene just before his death in 1961.
CHAPTER 1: MEET EUGENE JACQUES BULLARD - NEW YORK CITY/HARLEM, 1961
H: Midtown Manhattan was bright and clean; the shimmering windows of the tall buildings glistened, reflecting the morning sunlight. Well-dressed people hurried along the avenues, rushing to offices or to become customers at upscale designer stores. Rush, rush, you could feel the pulse of the city. Tourists lined up to take pictures in front of the brilliant golden statue of Atlas at Rockefeller Center. Traffic, almost solid, was bumper to bumper on Fifth Avenue. Drivers slammed fists on their blaring horns or sat impatiently waiting for a green light as others cursed the delays.
I moved away from the crowd and hailed a cab, and got in quickly. The driver questioned, “Where to buddy?” “Uptown, East 116th Street, Harlem.” The cabbie slammed down the meter flag and muttered loud enough for me to hear, “Damn son of a bitch.” He wasn’t happy about my destination.
We drove past the lush manicured lawns, iron fences and walls that guarded and signaled entrances to the mansions of the wealthy that lined Fifth Avenue. It was mid-morning when we reached Harlem - the streets were filled with empty store fronts covered by wood planks, and long shadows from once graceful, now ugly, tall apartment buildings with crumbling facades. Sidewalks were cracked, concrete missing. Traffic was noisy. Corner gangs shouted and fingered each other from one side of the avenue to the other. The taxi driver hurried his search.
“Here’s your address. Pay me and get out, now!” the cabbie ordered. He took the cash, made change, silently accepted the tip, and gunned the motor. The taxi‘s tires squealed as he raced away.
I was at 80 East 116th Street, a dilapidated apartment house probably built forty years ago when Harlem was a haven for the rich white. Gaps were apparent in the brick work, caulking gone, and the doors’ wood framing worn and cracked. Windows without glass were covered by cardboard, supported by tape. With a foreboding feeling, I opened the set of ancient beaten doors. The foyer door locks were missing. Quickly checked the bell panel listings and pushed the button for EJB. The bell did not work. My thoughts: “Why didn’t I arrange to meet somewhere else, somewhere clean and safe?” Slowly and carefully, I mounted the creaking stairs not knowing if they would hold, stepped over and bypassed the litter. Instantly withdrew my hand from the banister railing that was slick with nameless filth. Every bit of wall space was decorated with bright graffiti, clever colorful paintings, vulgar attempts at pornography, and names and symbols claiming recognition or ownership of a building or stairwell. The red painted metal apartment doors were dented and scratched, the knobs rough from rust. The stairs were uneven. I gagged on the stinking aroma of garbage. Found the apartment and knocked; a pause and then heard a bolt slide, and then a second lock click. The door opened. An elderly, slim black man smiled and offered his hand. “Bon jour, Monsieur Harris.”
The handshake was strong. He was shorter than I expected. His face, weathered with high cheekbones. was clean-shaven; deep wrinkles marred his forehead. His eyes were dark and friendly, and his receding hairline was grizzled gray. There was a slight aged slope to his shoulders; but there was grace, and his bearing was military. An American black man with a French accent? Why not? He lived most of his life in France.
I closed my eyes for a moment, realizing I was seeing the remnant of the heroic figure I envisioned: the runaway who became a gypsy, a boxer, an entertainer, a hero in two wars, a Paris nightclub owner who married French royalty, a spy, a member of the Resistance, and the first Black American Military Aviator. The one-room apartment was gray, Spartan and clean. A little sliver of sunlight
