The Man Called Brown Condor (9 page)

They had worked hard since morning. On the outside of the fence, more cars arrived as friends and relations came out for the big day. John paid no attention to them. He turned to the study group. “I want everything checked out one more time. Mr. Henderson said he would be here at three o'clock and it's almost two now.”

There were no complaints. Every member of the group had done some work on the plane. They had cleaned, sanded, filed, drilled, sawed, sewed, glued, primed, painted, and assembled all the pieces into a slab-sided little monoplane made almost completely of wood except for the welded steel tube fuselage. During the weekends and evenings they had spent building their flying machine, each had taken a turn sitting in the cockpit even before the fuselage had been covered. Now they checked their work one last time. The plane was as good as they could make it.

John watched them, listened to their excited chatter. He was proud of the group and proud of their workmanship. He was also weighed down with worry. He and Coffey had conceived the project and paid for most of the materials. He had talked the group into studying aviation and building a plane. They had all worked hard and learned much. Now he worried about the outcome. Would the members ever be able to put their skills to use? His most pressing worry at that moment was knowing they all longed to see the plane given the ultimate test: to see if it would fly. He felt guilty for the deal he had made with Bill Henderson, a deal that would ultimately disappoint his group by telling them the plane showed good work but not quite good enough to actually fly. He never thought the whole thing would get this far. He felt terrible at the deception he was committing, but he sure didn't want the project to end with someone getting killed trying to fly the thing. He didn't think the small engine, all they could afford, was powerful enough to lift the weight of the plane and pilot into the air. Yet he knew he wanted to see the plane fly more than anyone there. He looked at his watch.
Well, it's quarter past three. Maybe Mr. Henderson isn't coming.

A few minutes later someone shouted, “Here he comes! Here comes Mr. Henderson.”

John saw a white man in a top-down Ford roadster kicking up a trail of dust on the main road. The car slowed, turned in the gate, and headed for the plane.
Well, God help us.

They all escorted Mr. Henderson to their pride and joy, the culmination of over a thousand hours of volunteer labor. Henderson nodded to Robinson and began his inspection with a walk around the little craft. He stopped here and there to check a control surface, smooth his hand over the wings and tail, inspect a fastener, check a control wire tension, look carefully at attachments, inspect the firewall and engine mount, check the bracing wires and struts and their connections, examine the landing gear, look into the cockpit, move the control stick, and check the glued, wooden joints of the ribs and the welds of fuselage he could see through the inspection plates. Then he studied the engine installation, particularly the fuel and oil lines, magneto, and wiring. He asked to see the weight and balance calculations and looked at the mail-order plans.

After about an hour of inspection, he turned to Johnny. “This is the group you shared all you learned from sweeping up the back of my classes at night?”

John nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”

“And this project was your idea and you oversaw all the work on this bird?”

The group that had been silent except when answering occasional questions from Henderson now gathered around to listen.

“Coffey and I did, yes, sir,” John answered. “He and I did some of the work, but these people here did a lot of it.”

“Well, to be honest,” Henderson said, looking around at the group, “when you told me about this project, I really had my doubts. I expected to come out here and see some sort of crude kite thrown together with more enthusiasm than mechanical skill. Now I find the workmanship, in fact, the whole plane, is not bad at all. I have to tell you, I'm surprised. It's not a bad looking little plane, all things considered. Would you mind if I got in and taxied it around the field?”

In unison, the group answered for John. “No, sir! We knew you would like it.”

John laughed and motioned to Henderson. “Help yourself.”

Henderson was helped into the cockpit. He fastened the seat belt and familiarized himself with the simple controls. “Anyone have a pair of goggles?”

One of the group ran to his motorcycle, retrieved a pair of goggles, and brought them to Henderson. Henderson turned his Irish tweed driving hat around, put on the goggles, and called for a start.

“Switch off, throttled closed,” called Johnny.

“Off and closed,” replied Henderson.

John pulled the propeller through several times to prime the engine just as Robert Williamson had taught him that day at Willow Run. “Contact!” he called.

Henderson switched on the single ignition. “Contact!” he repeated.

John pulled the wooden prop down, stepping quickly away. The warm engine caught first try and settled down to a rhythmic putter. Bill Henderson motioned for the tail to be freed. The tether rope was untied. Johnny moved around to the cockpit and spoke into Henderson's ear.

“I don't know about this, Mr. Henderson. I thought you were going to find something wrong and this would be over.”

“So did I, but I haven't found anything really wrong. Besides, I'm just going to make some taxi tests. I don't think this little engine will get this thing off the ground with me in it. Looks like a motorcycle engine.”

“It is a motorcycle engine,” John said.

“How much fuel do I have?”

“There's a little less than five gallons in the tank. Please don't do anything foolish, Mr. Henderson. And remember, this thing don't have brakes. All you got to slow you down is a tail skid.”

“Look,” Henderson said. “I'm supposed to be the expert here, remember? I'd be in a hell of a fix if I got hurt flying a contraption built by a bunch of African engineers, none of who can fly an airplane.”

Henderson studied the few instruments in front of him: a tachometer, an oil pressure gage, an altimeter, a crude airspeed indicator, all of them old, used types from the Great War. A marine compass was fixed to the floor in front of the stick. Henderson motioned the group to get out of the way. Those holding the tail released their grip. Bill Henderson eased the throttle forward and the little plane began to move off down the field. He taxied off down the field, bumping along, kicking up meadow larks and flushing a covey of quail. He gave a little blast of power while feeding in a little right rudder and then a little left, turning down the field in an “S” to test the effectiveness of the rudder. When he reached the end of the field, he turned around and taxied upwind toward the group, increasing speed until he had enough to lift the tail off the ground. As he neared the little group he slowed down, waved as he turned around, and started down the field again, this time at a good clip. As he reached the end of the field, he once more turned upwind, facing the group at the far end.

John realized the engine noise had changed to a new level. It was making a high whining sound as it spun the flashing propeller at full power. He stared down the field as the small plane came toward them, growing nearer by the second.
Oh, Jesus! Don't do it, Mr. Henderson!

Still some distance away, the plane lifted momentarily into the air. Henderson gently banked the plane from side to side testing the controls. The needle of the airspeed indicator passed fifty miles an hour. As he reached the middle of the field, Henderson made his decision.

“There he goes!” someone in the group shouted. “Hot damn! He's flying!”

“God Almighty, Johnny, we made an airplane!”

And then it was there, flashing over them. It wasn't exactly clawing its way into the sky, but it was flying. For the group, it was an emotional moment. Some of them had tears in their eyes.

John Robinson, his heart in his throat, was the most amazed of all. He was also scared to death.

Henderson made a shallow bank and flew completely around the field, staying within gliding distance of the grassy meadow. He waved as he once again came over the group. Carefully he turned downwind and eased the throttle back. Too far! The plane exhibited a high sink rate. It was close to a stall. Henderson quickly fed in more throttle. It took nearly full throttle to maintain level flight. Very carefully, using a shallow bank, he turned 180 degrees and lined up for the landing. He didn't trust the crude airspeed indicator and held a little extra speed. As the plane crossed the fence at the far end of the field, he was careful to correct a slight left wing drop with rudder only. He didn't want to risk stalling the wing with too much aileron drag. He eased back the stick for the flare and then pulled the throttle back to idle. The little plane dropped about a foot to the ground, bounced once, and rolled out across the grass with Henderson working the rudder to hold it straight. Once slowed to taxi speed, he continued on to the end of the field where a jubilant group of airplane builders waited. Upon shutting down the engine, he sustained cheers and slaps on the back wildly given by the excited crowd. They helped—practically jerked—him out of the cockpit. Every last member of the group pumped Henderson's hand vigorously, each asking more questions about the flight than he could possibly answer. Everyone was talking and shouting at the same time.

Finally, in desperation to get away from the crowd, Henderson frantically looked for Johnny.

Robinson was leaning against a fence post, his arms folded across his chest, a big grin on his face. Their eyes met. Henderson grinned and John laughed, his head shaking from side to side in mock disbelief.

Henderson walked over to him. Robinson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pint of bonded bourbon, a rare commodity during Prohibition. “I thought maybe you would deserve a reward for coming all the way out here. I'd have gotten you a bigger bottle if I'd known you were gonna fly.” He held the bottle out to Henderson. “You said I was crazy when I told you we had built a flying machine, but you must be just as crazy 'cause you just flew the thing.”

Henderson opened the bottle and took a sip of the bourbon. He offered it to John who declined. “Thank you, but I don't much like the stuff.”

Henderson took another sip. “Well, John, if a nigger can build an airplane,” (Johnny's head snapped up in hurtful surprise) “then I guess I'll have to go back to Curtiss-Wright and somehow convince them that a nigger can fly one.” He grinned, took another sip. “This is the real thing, Johnny. Where you get it?”

John shook his head. “Just don't tell anybody I gave it to you. They'll think I'm a bootlegger. You really think you can get me in the school?”

“If I do, John, you can expect to hear some of that kind of talk. Some will try their best to wash you out, or bait you enough to make you lose your temper and do something to get yourself kicked out.”

“Won't be the first time. I can handle it. I've had plenty of practice with that kind of thing.”

Other bottles began to appear among the crowd. From the trunks and rumble seats of the assembled automobiles, baskets of fried chicken, potato salad, boiled eggs, ham, cake, and other goodies emerged. It was a wonderful, happy afternoon.

A few days later, John learned there was one more hurdle he had to make before he could join a flying class.

Henderson told him, “John, I've got to tell you that in spite of my report and recommendation, there is still more than a little opposition and skepticism among the powers that be at the school. The class beginning flight school next week has finished ground school and their exams. The administration has agreed that if you can pass the written exam before next Monday, you will be allowed to join the flying class. No one in the administration thinks you will pass, and a lot of people here hope you don't. Can you do it?”

“I reckon I don't have much choice, now do I? But you know I haven't been hanging around nights sweeping up the back of your classroom for the money. I got lots of notes, the book you gave me, and a little time to study. I think I can do it.”

“I think you can, too. One thing I didn't mentioned to the administration was that you have been doing more than cleaning up the classrooms. I think we should keep that to ourselves. Now if you do qualify, there will be people here that are going to be surprised and not very happy about it. You're going to get a rough introduction to flying by some guys who think they can give you more in the air than you can take. They plan to blame your quitting on you being colored. Do you get what I'm saying?”

“I been getting it all my life, but I ain't quit nothin' yet. When I was a boy in Mississippi, I was told that things were a lot different in the North, and I guess there are better job opportunities up here, but when it comes to relations with white folks, well I find the North and South aren't so different, 'cept maybe the South is more honest about it. I know you have stuck your neck out for me. I'm gonna do my best not to let either one of us down.”

“Okay, Johnny. I guess that covers it.” Henderson turned to leave.

“Not quite, Mr. Henderson.”

Henderson looked back.

Johnny said, “I want to thank you, sir, for all you have done.”

Henderson nodded and walked toward his car.

The following Thursday, John passed the examination with a good score. He paid in advance for his first few lessons and was scheduled for flying instruction two afternoons a week. He also enrolled in the aircraft mechanics course. His garage business was making enough to pay his flying fees, pay Tuggle, and keep the bill collectors from his door provided he didn't tire of canned beans, a little bacon, potatoes, and once in a great while a pork chop.

J
OHN
R
OBINSON REPORTED EARLY FOR HIS FIRST FLYING LESSON
. He sat on a bench facing the flight line watching students practicing takeoffs and landings. Bill Henderson, walking toward the flight shack, saw him.