All Blood Runs Red

by Phil Keith

  The group of seven aircraft were about three thousand feet below him and two miles off to the left. He goosed his plane to catch up.

  Wait a second. There are seven planes. I was the seventh!

  What Bullard had in his sights were seven Pfalz scout planes, headed for a mission over Verdun. These biplanes were fairly new to the war and a bit faster than Bullard’s SPAD, so he’d have to be careful. Dare he attack? He never really hesitated, even with staggeringly bad odds. The image of Dr. Gros was squarely on his mind as much as the German scouts. He figured he might be able to pick off one or two before they really knew what happened, after which he’d duck into the clouds and run for home. For the moment, high above and behind them, he had the advantage.

  He crept along the edges of the clouds to get closer, darting in and out of cover. When he was directly above, he pulled back on the throttle and pushed the nose over, hurtling straight down. He fixed the rear-most Pfalz in his sights, hardly able to believe in his good luck—and that he had not yet been spotted.

  Fifty yards behind his foe, he squeezed the trigger. And kept squeezing. With morbid satisfaction he watched the bullets steadily stitch the fuselage, from just forward of the tail all the way to the cockpit. Only at the last split second did the unlucky German aviator realize he was under attack. He swiveled in his seat to look around just as a round smashed squarely into his face. If he even saw the bullet, it was the last thing he ever viewed. A pink mist blew into the wind stream and Bullard released the trigger.

  The Pfalz pitched straight up until it stalled, did a wing over to the right, then started a corkscrewing spiral straight down, nine thousand feet. Bullard knew he did not have the luxury of watching the ultimate explosion. The other six Germans had realized he was there. He took a shot at one more scout plane that had turned in his direction, then ducked into the cloud bank. Applying full power, he raced from cloud to cloud, desperate to elude his pursuers. After a few minutes they gave up and returned to their patrol and their mission, whatever it might have been, less one comrade.

  Bullard was ecstatic. This time he knew for certain. He had seen the crippling blows he landed knock down his opponent, just like in the boxing ring. It was a full-on KO in the air. Although he felt bad about it, he knew the man was dead. He had seen his head virtually explode. There was no way either he or his aircraft could have survived. The problem, though, was that he had been alone. Maybe one member of his patrol had seen what happened? Perhaps there was an observation balloon nearby, tallying scores? Possibly, a unit on the ground had watched his SPAD with its bright crimson heart and “All Blood Runs Red” logo take down the Pfalz?

  No such luck. The remainder of Bullard’s patrol had pressed on, uneventfully, figuring their American brother had somehow gotten lost. They were sure he’d turn up. He did, back at home field, full of excitement for his second “victory.” Alas, once again, he had no proof. He’d simply have to keep on trying.

  * * *

  1 These early parachutes worked well, but they were used principally by the balloon pilots. These intrepid aviators were sitting ducks for fixed-wing aircraft and had no ability to escape a burning gas bag except to jump out of it. These men were forgiven the use of parachutes when needed as they really had no choice.

  2 Pinsard would become, after the war, Commander of the Legion of Honor and a general in World War II. He would also be accused of cooperating with the Nazis, for which he was tried and convicted, but later pardoned.

  3 Even this much deserved advancement was not granted: the paperwork seems to have gotten “misplaced.”

  9

  GROUNDED

  Sadly, Eugene Bullard’s groundbreaking career as a fighter pilot came to a rather abrupt and ignominious end. Once again, blatant racism raised its hand and swept him from the sky as surely as if he had been downed by enemy bullets. There are two versions to the story as to how this occurred, and only one, of course, can be true. Records to back one claim or the other are nonexistent. The only evidence of Bullard’s service as an aviator (in addition to his official license) committed to paper was a single entry in the War Records of France, which simply stated: “Served in Squadron 93 August 27, 1917 to September 13, 1917 and served in Squadron 85 September 13, 1917 to November 11, 1917.”1

  The tussle Bullard had engaged in with the Pfalz pilot was his last official flight as a fighter pilot, and, as far as can be determined, it was likely the last time he ever sat in a cockpit as a pilot in command. All in all, his career as a combat aviator spanned about ninety days, approximately twenty-five missions, and resulted in two “probable” kills. Compared to some others who flew in World War I, this might not seem to amount to very much, but for the twenty-two-year-old son of a former slave from Georgia with a second-grade education, he had come a very long way, broken several barriers, and accomplished a great deal.

  Bullard consistently told one story, for the rest of his days, as to why he was suddenly dismissed from the Air Service. Friends and acquaintances told another, less dignified tale, but no matter which account anyone might accept, both have unfortunate racist overtones and both were ultimately unfair, based on what Bullard had suffered for his adopted country in the war.

  Bullard’s version went like this: On November 23, thanks to bad weather, he and his chief mechanic, Sergeant Viel, were on one of the frequently granted twenty-four-hour passes. The duo, as well as many of their squadron mates, dashed off to nearby Paris.

  Bullard and Viel enjoyed the day in the City of Light, then took a train partway back to their base, stopping at Bar-le-Duc, where they booked a room at the Hotel de Commerce. Their plan was to have dinner, grab some sleep, then catch the first train in the morning. They would be back to the squadron before their passes expired.

  The pair dined in the hotel’s café, which was jam-packed, mostly with soldiers and officers heading back to the trenches. A terrible prospect for these men, Bullard mused, knowing all too well what that was like. After dinner, they were enjoying coffee and brandy when a French officer, dressed in the uniform of a colonial captain, seemed to be making motions for Bullard to step over to his table, where he sat with several other French officers.

  Bullard was, of course, dressed in his bright blue aviator’s uniform, emblazoned with his pilot’s wings, and festooned with his several decorations for bravery in the 170th. He stepped over to the officer’s table, came to attention, and saluted the scowling captain. The man refused to return the salute from Corporal Bullard, as French Army protocol—and honor—demanded.

  The inebriated and red-faced officer began peppering Bullard with embarrassing questions, such as, “Where did you get that uniform? Who told you that you could wear the wings of a pilot? How did you get those medals? Did you steal them?”

  Bullard remained at ramrod attention and mute. Since his salute had not been returned, he was required to do so.

  “See?” the captain laughed, gesturing to his tablemates, “I told you the monkey can’t even speak French!”

  That tore it. Remaining still, Bullard answered evenly, “I cannot answer you, sir, and I cannot consider you as an officer until you learn to return a salute when you are saluted.”

  The captain leaped to his feet, coiled, ready to strike. He shouted at Bullard, “You are unworthy of those decorations!”

  Bullard, ever the boxer, tensed to defend himself. Fortunately, before the confrontation accelerated to physical violence, a major at another table jumped up and shouted to the captain to stand down. The major walked over to Bullard and properly returned his salute. The major then asked the corporal to identify himself, which he did.

  “Bullard, eh? I have heard of you!”

  He then turned to the startled captain and dressed him down: “This man is a true hero of France! You should be ashamed of yourself. Maybe your service in the colonies of Africa has sun-baked your brain! Your beha
vior is disgusting.”

  The major then gave Bullard his card and said if there was any further difficulty with this officer he would be glad to testify on the corporal’s behalf. Bullard thanked the major, and all parties went about their business, Viel and Bullard going immediately to their room.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. When Bullard opened it, he found the major and two other officers standing there. After inviting them in, the major said, “Bullard, in France we are all the same. That old colonial officer must have thought he was still in Africa. I beg of you to forget what happened downstairs.”

  Without hesitating, Bullard responded, “It is forgotten, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bullard. Vive la France.”

  The officers left. When Bullard closed the door, he believed that all involved had put the incident behind them. In this assumption, he was wrong.

  Four days later, he received a letter from none other than his constant nemesis, Dr. Gros. The letter accused him of official misconduct for quarreling with a superior officer and that whatever punishment he received it would be totally justified. Sometime at the end of November, he was given orders terminating his service in Squadron 85. The directive dictated his transfer back to his old infantry unit, the 170th.

  The second version, which has been mentioned in other accounts and memoirs, is similar, if a bit more ugly. This time, Bullard is hustling back to base after a day and night in Paris and has missed his train. He is jogging down the road back to his airfield, in rain and mud, when a French Army truck rumbles by. Bullard shouts out to the driver, asking him for a lift. The truck stops, and he runs up to the back of the canvas-covered lorry. As he grabs a handle to pull himself up into the back of the truck, a hand thrusts out pushing him down. Perplexed, he tries again. Same result.

  Bullard attempts a third time to get in the truck and this time a boot slams into his chest and someone shouts out, “We don’t want your kind on this truck,” or words to that effect.

  Enraged, Bullard grabs the booted foot, yanks hard and drags the man out of the truck and throws him in a ditch by the side of the road. The man jumps up yelling, and Bullard coldcocks him, sending him sprawling in the mud, unconscious.

  The other occupants of the truck begin to jump out to the road, and someone produces a battle lantern. The figure lying in the slime is a young French lieutenant. Corporal Bullard has struck an officer, which is a serious, court-martial offense.

  Dr. Gros heard about this, of course, and the purge was on, only this time Gros wanted a court-martial and some serious prison time if not a firing squad. Captain Pinsard, Bullard’s commander at the 85 Squadron, was able to intervene, but only to the extent that he was not court-martialed, based on his medals and battle heroics. The end result was the same as in Bullard’s rendition: he was dismissed from the Air Service and sent back to his old unit.

  Thankfully, his old wounds, though they had healed quite well, kept Bullard from being sent back to the trenches. Instead, he was ordered to the service battalion for the 170th, which was located at a French Army base far to the south of Paris, at Fontaine-de-Berger. From December 1917 until the Armistice went into effect on November 11, 1918, Corporal Bullard shuffled paper, stood guard duty, and performed menial janitorial duties far from the sound of the guns.2

  “There was scarcely an American at Avord who did not know and like Bullard,” wrote James Norman Hall. “He was a brave, loyal and thoroughly likeable fellow; and when a quarrel with his superiors caused his withdrawal from Aviation, there was scarcely an American who did not regret that fact.”

  * * *

  After the end of hostilities, Bullard did not get his release from the French Army until late April 1919. This delay could have been due to the typical sluggish pace of army paperwork, or possibly the ever-wary Dr. Gros could have been at work again. Gros did not want Bullard to have any role in or be part of any celebrations in regard to the end of the war. He was fine with Bullard being kept far away in the obscure hills of the Puy-de-Dome.

  Nothing, however, could deny Eugene Bullard’s incredible record of wartime service. From the trenches of 1915 through the aerial battles of late 1917, he had been wounded at least three, possibly as many as four times, but certainly seriously twice. He had been decorated with some of France’s highest military awards, been designated as an aviator, and was authorized to wear the coveted French Army “fourragère” indicating a unit of distinction and valor in combat (from the old 3rd Marching Regiment).

  All in all, Bullard had been awarded the Military Medal (France’s second highest honor for bravery), Croix de Guerre, Volunteer Combat Cross, Combatant’s Cross, Medal for Military Wounded (twice), World War I Medal, Victory Medal, Voluntary Enlistment Medal, Battle of Verdun Medal, Battle of Somme Medal, and the American Volunteer with French Army Medal.

  Out of uniform, the new civilian naturally gravitated to his beloved Paris. Bullard was there by May 1919, back to many of his old haunts, with his old friends—at least those who had survived the war. We do not know how much, if any, of the $2,000 bet to become a pilot still remained in his pockets. Even if penniless, he was about to embark on the next phase of his life, the twenty years between 1919 and 1939, what the Bullard researcher and archivist Craig Lloyd has described as “his golden years.” These two decades would prove equal to, in many ways, the amazing experiences of his war years.

  * * *

  1 The end date of November 11 is certainly not accurate. There are squadron records that show Bullard was flying on missions until—as in the last chapter—at least November 19. We also know that the “scrap” described in this chapter that ended his flying career occurred sometime after November 11. Discrepancies like this in official records were very common, most due to the “fog of war.”

  2 Sadly, Jimmy, Bullard’s pet monkey, did not survive the war. The sniffles turned into pneumonia, and after two weeks of suffering, the poor little “copilot” passed away. He was given a hero’s “funeral” outside the officer’s club.

  ACT IV

  The Impresario

  10

  ALIVE AND WELL AND

  LIVING IN PARIS

  Eugene Bullard could not paint, and he was not much of a writer. His war wounds had definitely slowed him some, so going back to professional boxing was an open question. He was not flush with cash and needed to do something to make money. He could, for a while, depend on the largesse of his many friends, but that was not his style—he wanted to give more than he wanted to receive. What to do?

  His easy smile and natural talent for entertaining suggested the performing arts. Perhaps he could go on the road again, as a minstrel or pantomime actor, as he had done with Miss Belle’s Picks. He would be due at least a small pension from France for his service in the war, and he had taken steps to apply, but it would be a pittance, at best. As he contemplated all this from his new apartment on the rue Navarin in Montmartre, fate once again intervened on Bullard’s behalf.

  Montmartre would be the epicenter of the cultural revival of postwar France, providing a home to artists and writers and offering up the nightclubs and restaurants where they would congregate. In November 1919, Sylvia Beach opened the doors of Shakespeare and Company, the bookshop that would become a second home to James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, and other notable authors of the era. The following year, what was called in America the “Roaring Twenties” began; in France, it was “les années follies,” or the “crazy years.” According to Mary McAuliffe in her book When Paris Sizzled, “Whether viewed as crazy, foolish, savage or frenzied, these years flaunted a particularly unabashed rawness and boldness that formed the essence of the postwar modern movement that Parisians already were calling l’esprit nouveau.”

  McAuliffe continues: “For those fortunate enough to have money and leisure, it became the height of fashion to be witty, decadent and bored. Looking
for distraction, everyone who could—whether rich Americans, exiled Russian aristocrats or millionaires from any number of locations—came to Paris. There they could mingle in endless parties and late-night jazz clubs, indulging in a heady mix of booze, drugs and sex.”

  Bullard could sense the return to glory for the City of Light and he wanted to embrace all of it. He began working out again, to get in better shape and rehabilitate the muscles that had been torn in his left leg. He took on small jobs in a couple of gyms as a sparring partner. There was no shortage of young boxers and rising stars who wanted to go a few rounds with the former “Sparrow” who was then sometimes called by friends “Black Swallow.” At night, he would tour the clubs, chatting up friends and looking for work.

  What he discovered in the clubs surprised him: the jazz movement was really catching on. People from all over Europe and the States seemed to love the free-form expression of “Negro music,” and all the singing, dancing, and gyrating that went with it. Black expression through jazz became au courant, and quite lucrative for those who could sing or play a jazz instrument.

  Bullard had made friends with a supremely talented black drummer by the name of Louis Mitchell, who was the leader of a popular group called the Seven Spades Band.1 Mitchell hooked up his new friend with one of his percussionists, Seth Jones, and Bullard began taking drum lessons at night after his workouts at the gym. If he wasn’t a natural he was at least good enough, and he was soon able to sit in with a couple of backup bands.

  As in the rising-tide-lifts-all-boats theory, jazz became so popular in Paris at this time that if one was black and owned a pair of drumsticks he could get hired. Even Bullard, years later, often laughed about how bad he was at this stage of his drumming career, but at least he was earnest and loud, and that was all that seemed to matter.