All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator

By Henry Scott Harris

Life and legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard, the first black American military aviator... from his childhood to WWI hero, 47 chapters of his life from the time he ran away from home, alone at the age of eight to find freedom and equality in France. This is based on a true life. It is a series of fictional interviews with a man whom I never met.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456612993

Book preview

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 appeared through the shabby curtains that covered the view of the alley. In the center of the room, an uncovered light bulb hung above a barren, highly polished wooden table. The floor had been swept. His few dishes were washed and stacked neatly on the old discolored sink. The small single bed was against the wall. A worn dark blue wool blanket was firmly tucked in tight to meet military regulations.

He directed me to a tattered, over-stuffed chair placed at one side of the table. The walls were covered with thumb tacked old French and American flags and newspapers from 1914-1918: We Are At War, Germans Attack France, American Enters the War, Doughboys at the Front, US Air Ace Rickenbacker Gets 26th Kill. And more from 1939 to 1945: War with Nazis, Germans Capture Paris, Allies Invade Europe, War in Europe Ends, De Gaulle Marches in Paris.

Models of World War One warplanes, held by strings, were dangling and swaying from the ceiling. There were French, German and American miniatures - exact in every detail. The largest model was a blue Spad, decorated with an insignia of a large red heart with a dagger running through it. Eugene Jacques Bullard, an authentic hero, sat facing me on a plain wooden chair. His arthritic trembling fingers, ever-so gently, brought that particular biplane to the table. This was mine. Bang, bang, and bang, he smiled, making sounds of a machine gun as he lifted the plane and pretended to have it dive, loop and then softly cradled it to a landing on the table. You could see he was reliving those days. His actions were hypnotic.

E: It was just like that. You flew high in the clouds; you were free until you realized you were only free to kill the enemy. When I lived and fought in the trenches and later flew over them, I saw more than war; I saw hate, murder, a savagery not thought possible. The world has still not changed. Curious why I had rouge-coeur, a red-heart, on my plane? It was to show that all blood runs red. Would you like some wine before we begin?

H: Yes, thank you.

I felt myself being inexplicitly drawn into the life of Eugene Jacques Bullard.

CHAPTER 2: THE BEGINNING

H: Tell me, who is Eugene Jacques Bullard?

E: My life and my Bullard name began with the real Bullard family. Without doubt I had grandparents who were slaves. Don’t know who they were or my real name; it doesn’t matter. I am Eugene Jacques Bullard.

It began in l865 at the end the Civil War. Struggling lines of surviving tattered, battered and wounded Southern troops were dragging themselves home to Columbus, Georgia. People lined the dirt roads seeking brothers and fathers. A young white girl, in a dainty pink dress, was standing in front of a large house. She waved and cheered. Not far away, a bedraggled Confederate soldier stopped. Puzzled, he glanced around, searching for the strange wailing he heard. Looking to the ditch on the side of the road, he saw movement. He picked up an abandoned rag bag and cautiously examined it. Startled, he saw a three-month-old, fussing black baby boy, covered with an old blanket, deserted and left to die by the wayside. Holy General Lee, he shouted, it’s a baby. A black baby boy!

Not knowing what to do, he asked the girl, Please hold the baby. As she cuddled the infant in her arms, the crying stopped. And the legend of my family began there. The white girl, daughter of the old-line, well-to-do Bullard family, brought the baby home, as she said, For luck. That three- month-old male child was my father. They named him, baptized and raised William Octavo Bullard.

H: Incredible, a fairy tale with the good princess.

E: As he grew, the Bullards educated him, and put him to work in their fields. By the time he was 18 he was tall, big, over six and a half foot. My father told us that the Bullard family was originally from France. As part of his education, they impressed him about France’s liberty and fraternity, a place of unmatched freedoms and equality. My father believed that, taught us, and we believed.

H: What about your family life?

E: My father was an enormous man, strong yet gentle. So tall, I could hide in his long shadow. The old guard Columbians resented him, his ability to read and write, and that the Bullards favored him. He delighted telling us about our mother. One day, while working in the fields, I saw a dream. A beautiful princess with flashing eyes, smooth glistening mahogany skin, long sleek hair, and high cheekbones. Her smile warmed me to the depth of my heart, I wanted that Creek Indian.

When he was twenty, he married my mother. Her Indian name was Joyakee. I remember her dark eyes, the strains of braided hair, the red skin, her laughter, and most of all, mon dieu, how she loved us.

H: You say us?

E: Oui. Us as in many! As a wedding present the Bullards gave Dad enough money to buy a house. It was a very small house but it was ours, with its weather-beaten wood planks for walls and floors, and three rooms: one for eating with a large, open fireplace; one for my parents; and one for all the children, all ten of us. Bless her; my mother was always fat with a child growing inside her. Though we were ten children, she found time for each of us. She dazzled us with stories of her Indian youth and mon dieu, she could cook. I remember, somehow, that there was enough food. Can you imagine the combination cuisine of southern down-home cooking with a dash of typical black or Indian foods? She took okra, grits, rice, corn, flour, potatoes and vegetables and sometimes, on special occasions, small, very small, portions of meat and made dinner a treat. I was always suspicious that she skipped meals to make sure we were fed.

H: There were ten children?

E: Correct, ten, though we lost three very early on. Why? I don’t know, perhaps the fever. I was the seventh, born I believe, October 9, 1894. Ah, the lucky seventh. A growing family meant more responsibility, so Dad needed a better paying job. Because of his size, it was easy for him to obtain work on the docks. The owner, Mr. Bradley, took a liking to the Big Ox and enjoyed talking to him because he was educated and because he out-performed the white dockworkers.

The white dock handlers resented being instructed to Follow the Big Ox, match his work. It was those conversations and his work ethic that caused the problem. My father cut short my first and only visit to the dock. He ordered me, Gene, go home NOW! As I left I heard disgruntled white workers talking about my father as an uppity nigga who should be put in his place by a rope. They looked at me and cursed, There’s another bastard from that black Indian bitch. I didn’t know what they meant.

H: Were you aware of what was happening?

E: I was just a child. There was anther incident that I can’t forget. Hearing the laughter of children, I crossed the road, heading for the joyous sound, wanting to play with the children…they were white. Up to then, I never knew there was a difference. Their shouts, I still hear them, Get out of here nigga baby or we’ll stomp you. You are stupid, a black pig. Go and crawl and grunt your way home. They threw stones and sticks at me. I ran. I cried. What did I do? I only wanted to play.

That night I asked my father to explain. He tried. Gene, I can’t tell you why people hate because of the color of our skin. Perhaps they are afraid of us. We are different. You don’t ever be afraid. Be proud of who you are. Just pretend you are in France.

H: Unfortunately, as a child you got a bitter introduction to the real world.

E: Confusion and tears marred my childhood. Confused as to who and what I was. I was just a small boy who never hated anyone or wanted to hurt anyone. But people hated us. Dad set a rule: not one of us was to come in to town for any reason. Blacks had to walk in the street and better not make eye contact with a white. Like a growling, growing virus, I began to feel the hate spreading. I could touch it. Mother tried to make it easier for us by singing Indian songs and telling stories to make us smile. Didn’t matter; I knew they hated her too because she was an Indian and worst of all, married to a black man. I wanted to escape. She tried to comfort us saying, Someday, we’ll all go to France. I wondered if there was such a place. And then tragedy, the worst day of my life."

H: (At this point in our conversation, I noticed that Eugene’s eyes welled-up. Small tears rolled down his cheeks). Eugene, do you want to stop for a while?

E: Non, it is best we pass this point quickly. This one morning the house was strangely silent. I didn’t hear my mother call, Hurry Eugene, breakfast. No voices, only low moans. This darkness and sounds frightened me. I jumped out of bed, Where is Momma? My father’s answer tore at my heart and reached into the very depths of my soul. Gene, she is with God in heaven.

With God. My mother died during the night. I rushed to my parents’ room and threw myself across her body. Oh, how I cried. The heartache penetrated my entire body. Pain so bad I couldn’t breathe. It hurt so. I wailed, screamed, pleaded and begged, God, please give her back. We need her, we love her, I promise I’ll be good. As I lay there, a shadow crossed the bed. I looked up at a figure of a man with the same dark eyes and skin as hers. He stood, his strong hands on my small shoulder, chanting and muttering words and sounds I had never heard, strange yet soothing sounds. When he finished, he lifted me up, hugged me to his breast and said, She is at peace. Be strong, for you now carry her spirit. He put me down saying

You will not see me again; walk tall, my grandson.

As quickly and silently as he came, he left. To this day I don’t know how he knew she has passed on and to come to us. Mother was only 33. Gone were the laughter, the smiles, the songs, the sight of her with a baby in her arms and one in her belly; and gone was a mother’s love. Gone was part of my being. The house was no longer a home.

H: How did you manage?

E: Not very well. My oldest sister Pauline quit school to be the woman of the house. Dad tried in every way. Though he worked long hours on the docks, he rushed home to be with us. He wiped our daily tears and our noses. We spoke of her and knew that he felt the emptiness. Each evening he would end a prayer with, I promise someday, I’ll take all you to France and it will be marvelous. I was the only one who made it.

CHAPTER 3: THE INCIDENT…THE HOUSE…THE JOURNEY BEGINS

E: It was the fight that put me on the road. My father worked on the warehouse docks unloading cargo from the river cruisers. The white dock boss, named Stevenson, a cracker bigot, hated Dad because Dad was black, educated and had conversations with the warehouse owner, Mr. W.C. Bradley. He was a genial man, didn’t care about color, just wanted work done quickly and without problems. Stevenson, on the other hand, was fat, squat, a foot shorter than the Big Ox and small in mind.

He was an uneducated, brutish, ugly, sadistic bully who ruled the dock and warehouse as if it was his private plantation. He wore a rumpled dirty white shirt, stained with tobacco ashes from his ever-present cigar. His jodhpurs were tucked into highly polished, glistening black boots. A straw, river-boat gambler’s wide brimmed fedora adorned his round head. He was never without a long, thick, hand-carved cane with a silver wolf’s head as its handle. He cradled it lovingly as he verbally and physically abused the black workers. He would curse them and when the thought pleased him, and that was often, he would lash out with that silver handled cane. Each day, he searched for reasons real or not, to use it. You boys see this hungry wolf? It hates lazy black bodies. It knows its way around your backs. So shut up and do as I say, and do it my way or I’ll let him bite you, hard!

At home we sensed there were problems, but felt that Dad was able to deal with them. But what we didn’t know was how deep they ran. Each night, my sisters, brothers and I huddled together around the wood table, anxiously waiting and watching for Daddy to come home safe. When he was late, I was frightened, and felt my pounding heart would jump out from my chest. We knew there were men who hated my father because he was black. Many times Daddy would try to explain to us, but it just didn’t make sense. Didn’t make sense then and doesn’t make sense now. I was just a child with fears that only vanished when he opened the door and smiled. It was then I felt safe, but never knew exactly what was going on, only that it was bad.

It was an exceptionally hot day, sweltering hot. Flumes of steam rose from the wood planks at the warehouse wharf. River steamers’ holds were opened to deliver their goods for storage and distribution. The black dockhands, drenched with sweat, grumbled as they climbed non-stop, up and down the gangplanks, burdened with goods from the ships, their muscles and bodies straining as they turned to each other, complaining about the heat, the lack of water, and the favored treatment of the white hands. Boss Stevenson had a favored white crew who had water when they thirsted and relaxed in the shade until the heavy work was done. Blacks, with tongues dried and lips cracked, could only speak in whispers. Shit on that man, Stevenson. It’s so fuckin’ hot and we gotta beg for water? We ain’t dogs. That man ain’t human. He cares for no one and no one cares ‘bout him.

They had to be careful, for if Stevenson overheard or had a suspicion of a complaint from a colored hand, he would happily rush over and apply a mean stroke of the cane. The Big Ox avoided the group and the growing and gnawing discontent. Dad worked in silence. Stevenson hated the Big Ox and singled him out for special duty, the hardest work. On this particular day, perhaps it was because of the extreme heat and the burning Sun from a cloudless sky, the friction became more apparent. You could feel it, taste it. The boss man, loud, and coarse, ordered, You, Mr. Big Nigga, pick up that bundle! Don’t bother to look for help, do it by yourself! Do it now or you’ll enjoy a loving pat from my cane.

As Dad bent to heft a large bale, Stevenson, using the cane, tripped him. He shoved Ox to the ground scrapping the big man’s arms and legs, and wood splinters dug into his flesh. Ha, got you good. Git your ass up, Stevenson laughed. Angered, Dad rose, his fingers tightly clenched into fists. He heard shouts of, Get him, Big Ox. Crush him! He looked into Stevenson’s face, braced himself, pulled his arm back as if to hit out. The Boss held up his hands, covered his face, protecting himself from the anticipated blow, flinching, cringing, closing his eyes and backed away. The Ox stopped, waited ‘til Stevenson opened his eyes, then again pretended to prepare to hit him again. Instead he controlled his temper, calmly smiled, gave a short victorious chuckle, took a deep breath, turned, ignored the dock boss, lifted the bale, and walked away.

At that moment, everyone knew that Stevenson had become afraid, a trembling coward. No one had ever dared to look him in the eye or threaten him. Big Ox strode up the gangplank near the storage hold of the ship. Stevenson, enraged, composed himself, followed him, loudly cursing, You black son of a bitch, you Indian lover. Got your own tribe of little bastard half-breeds. I’ll get you. The wolf will taste you! No reaction from the giant black man, knowing it would cost him his job or he’d be sent to prison or strung up. The Ox was silent. The fat man was defied. His shouting became screams, almost a girlish whine. You hear me Ox. Turn around, you shit ass, Stevenson yelled. The Big Ox gave no sign he heard. He would not be goaded, and continued working. His orders being ignored, Stevenson became more incensed. He paused and carefully looked. The Big Ox had turned away, his back to Stevenson, who saw he had an easy target. He grabbed a pole, lifted it, and swung it down hard on the Big Ox’s head yelling, That will teach you. Won’t listen to me, eh boy! You’re a dead man.

The Big Ox went crashing down. A river of blood spouted from his head as he lay there. Stevenson, not content, laughing, screaming, raised the pole and struck the Ox’s back again and again. Dad lay there, still. Stevenson snickered, Got you good, didn’t I boy! Come on, don’t be a nigga’ baby, git up. The dock was deathly quiet. Minutes went by. No movement. No one rushed to help the Ox. Was he dead? The Ox moved, slightly at first. Though dazed and bloodied, he slowly rose, staggered to his full height, summoned his strength, tore off the red-blood-stained remnants of his shirt, wiped the blood from his face, and threw it to the ground and roared, Damn you, damn you to hell you miserable little shit!

Standing tall and defiant, he grabbed the amazed Stevenson, held him firm, dodging his flaying punches, and slowly wrapped his giant arms about the squealing dockmaster, squeezing him. As Stevenson screamed, Help me, please dear God help me, I can’t breathe, Ox raised him high over his head. The crews watched, transfixed and fascinated as Stevenson pleaded, almost crying, and begging, Save me. Please. Put me down. You boys get him! No one moved. Put me down, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. He was squealing like a pig. No one, black or white, came to his aid. The Ox roared, "Damn, you’ll never whip me or anyone again. Look, you