by Phil Keith
Bullard flew a SPAD VII C1, which was about as much aviation state-of-the-art as a rookie pilot could get. One image exists showing his fuselage painted sky blue with a flashy red engine cowling; another shows his SPAD as banana yellow. It could have been either but probably neither, at least at the start of his flying career. Although pilots did have a great deal of leeway in how their aircraft might be decorated, it was only the accomplished pilots, and mainly the aces—like the famous Red Baron—who could demand a solid color scheme. On a practical basis, the ground crews, aircraft painters, and mechanics would not waste a lot of time lavishing wild paint jobs on untested pilots who might fly only one, fateful, career-ending mission.
It is most probable that Bullard’s plane was not painted much at all. Most of the aircraft flown by the allies, especially the French and (later) the Americans, had universally buff or light caramel-colored fuselages (thanks to the varnished canvas). The vertical stabilizer (tail) was almost always painted with three vertical stripes: red, white, and blue, the Tricolor of France. Under and above each wing on both sides were painted three large concentric circles, with white most often the center circle, sometimes blue. Individual escadrilles affixed squadron numbers, and squadrons that had “totems” such as dragons, skull-and-bones, etc., would have them pasted onto the sides of the aircraft as well. Camouflage didn’t come into play until very late in the war and many pilots eschewed it entirely in favor of their more distinctive personal colors.
Bullard absolutely had one distinctive decoration, and it spoke volumes about his uniqueness as an aviator and as an individual. He always flew with a large red heart painted on each side of his fuselage, right behind the cockpit. The heart bled, pierced by a dagger. Above the heart was stenciled the following: “Tout Le Sange Qui Coule Est Rouge”; in English, “All Blood That Flows is Red.” Certainly a testament to his courage, but also a firm statement that no matter the skin colors of the pilots, they all shed the same crimson-hued blood. It was a powerful slogan, and one Bullard adored. He would use a variation as the title to his never-published autobiography.
September 8 weather offered up a chilly late summer morning, but that was not the reason Bullard was bundled into his bulky, thickly-padded flying suit. Should the mission go to 2,000 meters (6,500 feet), as was planned, the outside air temperature would approach freezing. Despite the full-throated power of the big engine, it shared no warmth with its human operator because heating and cooling systems for the pilots had not yet been invented. Warm gloves and fur-lined flying boots were required instead, and Bullard had both.
Jimmy, his faithful companion, scrambled aboard, too, wearing a miniature flight suit. He settled into the cramped space at Bullard’s feet that the monkey had been trained to occupy while the duo was in the air. As Bullard was about to make history so, too, may have Jimmy, as perhaps the first flying fighter pilot monkey.
Anyone on their first aerial combat mission is decidedly nervous, excited, terrified. Eugene Bullard was all three. In addition, he clearly understood his place in the annals of aviation. He knew, without question, that he was about to become the first African American fighter pilot in history. He would later recall about that ground-breaking mission:
In three minutes or less the order was given, “Partez,” meaning “Go.” The chocks were pulled away. And so we did and fast... I sincerely believe that there has never been a pilot aviator who did not have a funny feeling on his first combat patrol and who wasn’t really scared the first time that he faced the enemy in the air or who was flying in formation to meet the enemy. I am not ashamed to admit these facts about myself. Why should I be? I am not an angel, nor am I a hero.
Anyhow, I was determined to do all that was in my power to make good, as I knew that the eyes of the world were watching me as the first Negro military pilot in the world. I felt the same way... Lindbergh felt when he was the first to fly from New York to Paris, France. I had to do or die, and I didn’t [want to] die.
The gods of war went easy on Bullard and his mates that day. The fourteen Nieuports and SPADs, flying in a V formation, wandered over the German lines and flew as far as Metz, but encountered no opposition. On the return leg, German antiaircraft gunners lobbed a few shells skyward, trying to pick off an unlucky plane or two, but all flew on, untouched. Pressing for home, the flyers passed over Verdun, that cauldron of insanity.
Shortly thereafter, over Bar-le-Duc, the flight leader, Captain Pinsard, at the apex of the V, made the swallow-tail maneuver (waggling his plane’s tail side to side) that meant “prepare for battle.” All the pilots in the formation fanned out, giving each plane space, and all began slipping and sliding from one side to another, which was the way they had been trained to “look around.” Bullard followed the rest and did likewise. Within a few minutes, though, Pinsard gave the signal (passed by hand sign from one pilot to another) to reform the V. Once back together the formation returned to base, all landing safely and without incident.
Only after landing, with all pilots repairing to the club for lunch, did Bullard learn that the “prepare for battle” maneuver had been preplanned. All the aviators, except the rookie, were in on it. It was done to gauge Bullard’s reaction to a battle signal, and to see if he really knew what he was doing. He had passed with flying colors, having done exactly what he should have, and all the other pilots offered their congratulations on a first combat flight well done. It was time for champagne, and lunch. Perhaps two glasses of champagne: after all, the next sortie wasn’t for another four hours.
* * *
The afternoon mission would prove to be very different from Bullard’s morning baptism. Major Minard (commanding the squadron) would lead this flight which would consist of thirty-three SPADs and Nieuports. If opposition was encountered, the formation would break into groups of seven or eight fighters each. Bullard was told by his commander to stick close to him and not get caught up in any fighting except that which he could not possibly avoid.
Minard joked, “We must not lose you too soon, Bullard, or poor Jimmy will be an orphan!”
Almost immediately after takeoff, four big slow German Gotha bombers were spotted, heading for French positions at Bar-le-Duc. They were accompanied by sixteen German fighters, both Eindeckers and Fokkers. Clearly, this would not be a routine patrol. Minard gave the signal to spread out and attack. Bullard did what he had been briefed to do, but discipline would soon be overcome by events.
Soon the gray skies were filled with snarling engines and the nearly constant rat-tat-tat of the clanking guns. Even above the roar of his own engine Gene could hear the enemy’s bullets ripping the air as they sought out his fragile crate. There were so many targets, so many aircraft competing for smaller and smaller amounts of space, that it became almost impossible to concentrate on one shape—or to even tell friend from foe. Bullard soon lost track of Major Minard and became enveloped in a whirl of men and machines tearing at one another two thousand feet above the ground.
During those first confusing moments, at least some of his commander’s cautions penetrated his consciousness: “Don’t forget that there are always three ways to be brought down, or, should I say, to lose your life in the air. The most dangerous way is by your adversary. The second is by artillery from the ground. Then there can be a collision. So please watch out for these three dangers. If you must collide with someone in the air, please let it be a German.”
Not colliding with someone at that particular time seemed an impossibility. Dozens of aircraft were spinning and diving, slipping and sliding, dancing and juking in a grand, unchoreographed ballet in the sky. Black contrails began to appear, first here, then there. Bullard could hear an engine sputter then die. For a moment, he panicked, thinking it was his own, but it was not. He pressed the triggers of his own guns and felt, for the first time, the buck-buck-buck of the recoil as it jiggered his cockpit. He had no idea who or what he was firing at, but to do nothing in the midst of t
hat violent maelstrom seemed cowardly. If nothing else, he had cleared his guns, assuring himself that they would fire (often, they didn’t). He just hoped that he had not hit one of his pals.
Bullard was no coward. Neither were any of the men whirling around him, French or German. To get into one of these early fighters and take off from the ground was an act of great courage in and of itself. The aircraft, on both sides, were painstakingly manufactured, for what they were, but in reality, as these men knew all too well, they were nothing more than steel wire, varnished struts, lacquered canvas, paper-thin fuselages, and bits of rubber and steel slapped together around an extremely volatile gas tank and a big engine spitting oil and fire.
There was no protection for a pilot from machine-gun bullets or any sort of artillery or ground fire. The 7.92mm Spandau bullets used by most German fighter aircraft guns could rip a man apart if several hit a center mass. One bullet to the head would do the job as well. A single round to an arm or leg would be incapacitating. Nothing on an allied aircraft could stop these rounds, except maybe the engine casing, and even four or five hits could wreck that. These early aircraft had no self-sealing gas tanks either, as would be the case in many World War II planes. Pilots who survived the first war stated that even a handful of rounds could bring down an aircraft if they clipped the right wires, hit the fuel tank or shattered a critical wing strut.
Parachutes, as we have stated, were available, but not a single fighter pilot wore one, or even carried one in the cockpit.1 You fought and survived, or you went down with your ship. A few men walked away from horrific crashes, but not many. Fire was a serious concern. The early aviators were essentially flying in gasoline bombs that could explode at any moment. A number of World War I pilots perished gruesomely, burned alive in their cockpits before their aircraft struck the ground.
During Bullard’s afternoon mission, as the aerial combat waxed and waned, time seemed to stand still, though in reality the entire action lasted less than five minutes. The four German bombers were immediately attacked by the speedy, nimble fighters. One French pilot hit a bomber with a lucky shot that set off the ordnance the plane was carrying, producing a spectacular midair blast that obliterated the aircraft and its three-man crew instantly. The other three Gothas were soon on fire and going down. All three crashed behind the allied lines. Two Fokkers spiraled into the ground, exploding, and two French pilots were shot down as well. Once the bombers were eliminated, there wasn’t any more purpose to the mission for the surviving German fighters, so they broke off the engagement and sped toward home.
A muted group gathered at the bar after the mission. They had done quite well, shooting down six enemy planes, but they had lost two pilots of their own. A mechanic reported to Bullard that he had expended seventy-eight rounds, and that there were seven bullet holes in the tail of his aircraft, none of which he had felt or even known about during the flight. He had been “bloodied,” in a way, and grateful his SPAD had survived his first serious aerial confrontation.
* * *
On September 13, Bullard was transferred to squadron N-85 from N-93. There was nothing more to this transfer than an adjustment to balance out replacements and losses. He began flying under the leadership of Captain Armand Pinsard, a leading French ace with seventeen victories (the total would climb to twenty-seven before the war ended). Pinsard took a liking to Bullard, not quite twenty-two years old, and would often have him fly under his tutelage and alongside him as his wingman.2
By the end of October, Bullard had flown twenty combat missions. He had been involved in a number of aerial scraps but he had yet to be credited with shooting down an enemy plane. This was not unusual: hundreds of pilots went without a single victory. Partly this was because of the system, if it can be called such, used to credit victories.
One certain way to score an aerial victory was to have the enemy crash land behind your own lines where the wreckage or the remains of the unlucky pilot could be identified, or if the pilot survived, he could certainly tell the tale himself. Second best was to have an eyewitness back up your claim—someone who was in the sky or on the mission with you. A third way to verify a victory was to have it reported by a balloon crew, who often witnessed the aerial battles and, as trained observers, could keep track of who was blowing whom out of the sky. The World War I years were still an era when a man’s word was his bond, so to cheat by faking victories was unheard of and ungentlemanly.
If an enemy target was able to fly back behind his own lines before crashing, which happened very frequently, that could not be counted as a kill, because no one knew the ultimate fate of the aircraft or pilot. If a one-on-one dogfight occurred resulting in a victory, that might not count either since there were no eyewitnesses.
Eugene Bullard was a competent pilot but he was not a Lufbery or Rickenbacker. He never missed a roll call or a mission. He slogged faithfully through the air much the way he had done in the trenches. He could be relied upon, and was a trusted companion. The French were lucky to have him and the Americans would have been fortunate to have him as well...but they didn’t want him.
* * *
The Americans began arriving in France at the end of April 1917. It was one token regiment at first, but soon the ranks swelled to hundreds of thousands, then millions. By October, a call had gone out for any and all American pilots flying for France to join the American Air Service, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Billy Mitchell.
Colonel Raynal C. Bolling from General Pershing’s staff convened an examining board to review potential pilots for transfer from the French escadrilles to the American Air Service. Bullard and twenty-eight of his fellow pilots were the first eager applicants to rush off to Paris. Army physicians would conduct exams, and then each candidate would be further screened by an examining board consisting of four senior army officers.
The doctors didn’t quite know what to do with Eugene Bullard. His previous war wounds had healed so well that they no longer presented any obstacles. His excellent physical shape and overall conditioning, thanks to years of hard work in the gym and strenuous boxing, made him a better candidate than some of his “softer” companions. Several doctors, quite naturally, probed with more than their instruments, peppering Bullard with questions: “How did you learn to fly?”
“Where did you get your training?”
“Who let you into the aviation ranks?”
The doctors found no evidence to deny Bullard from passing their physicals. They rated him “fit for duty.” They knew full well, however, that it would never happen. Segregation was still the official policy of the United States Army: blacks were not even allowed into aviation units to perform the most menial of tasks, never mind mechanic, gunner, or pilot. The list of twenty-nine candidates was passed to the examining board, and that was where Bullard ran into a familiar roadblock.
Much to his consternation, one of the four board members was none other than his old nemesis, Dr. Gros. Even the racist doctor couldn’t come right out and deny Bullard’s application, though. It would offend the sensibilities of the French, even if racial exclusion was official United States policy. Instead, the doctor and his fellow board members took a devious but ultimately effective route. It was required, at the time, that all American pilots had to be commissioned officers and rated at least first lieutenants. The other twenty-eight candidates were rated either first lieutenants or captains and commissioned accordingly. The board rated Bullard only as “sergeant material” and he was therefore disqualified.
It was a bitter blow to his hopes and ambitions. It was also reality. Eugene Bullard truly was a hero of France, and he had gained great notoriety in his adopted country. Even so, Dr. Gros wanted him removed from the air completely, such was his animus toward blacks. The Americans could not afford to have Bullard’s fame spread to the home front, but neither could they offend their French hosts. On the other hand, the French couldn’t make too many demands of the American
s, such as giving Bullard his due, because they needed the doughboy manpower so desperately. As a result, Bullard was stuck in a regulatory and bureaucratic limbo. All parties decided to do nothing more than ignore Bullard’s application.
The dejected candidate returned to his French Escadrille, but at least he had been rated “sergeant,” a promotion he still hoped to get.3 He became determined to shoot down as many Germans as he could. If he could somehow become an ace, he believed the Americans—even the devious Dr. Gros—would finally be forced to recognize his abilities and accept his application.
* * *
The day after his harrowing brush with death (as chronicled in the Prologue), Bullard, still nursing a champagne headache, was back in the air. It was November 19, 1917. The weather was sketchy, but a few blue patches among the clouds convinced Major Minard that they needed to at least make an effort.
Bullard’s small patrol of seven SPADs and Nieuports drifted lazily toward Verdun at an oxygen-poor twelve thousand feet. It was freezing cold and that, plus the slight hypoxia (which pilots were still ignorant about), caused his mind to wander. The planes sailed through small batches of puffy clouds.
As Bullard punched through one large cloud and came out the other side he found himself alone. His patrol had disappeared. He did not panic, though. He began, as trained, a series of slow port and starboard turns along the patrol’s flight path. Nothing. Then something, ahead and below.
There they are, he thought to himself. I wonder why they dropped down?