Prologue

Lucky

Eugene Bullard struggled to keep his sputtering biplane from crashing. He headed back toward French-occupied territory. Tracer bullets from machine guns in the trenches below streaked around him. Thwack, thwack, thwack! A line of holes marched across a lower wing.

Splang! One bullet punched through the front cowling. The SPAD’s engine belched black smoke. Sweet-smelling castor oil sprayed Bullard’s windshield and face. He wiped his goggles with his sleeve and desperately worked his throttle to keep the engine running.

It seemed like every German soldier in the trenches below was firing at him while Bullard coaxed his puttering plane over the enemy lines. The SPAD’s engine gasped one last time and died. Bullard had no choice now. He had to land—in a plane that glided like a brick.

 

 

Eugene Bullard, shown here in his French aviators’ uniform, was a member of the French Foreign Legion and flew with the French Lafayette Corps.

 

A muddy field in no-man’s land appeared ahead. Wind whistled past Bullard’s falling plane. Pushing away fear, he focused on landing. He tore off his goggles; they might shatter on impact. The ground came up fast. Bullard held his breath. Don’t stall, keep the wings level, don’t hit a shellhole. He carefully pulled back on his stick. The SPAD’s wheels hit ground. The plane bounced, bounced, bounced and finally came to rest.

Bullard exhaled. At least I didn’t flip over. Machine-gun bullets drilled the air around the downed SPAD. Bullard unfastened his seat belt, clambered over the far side of his fuselage, and fell into a muddy crater. As long as the Germans were firing at him, he could only lie in the cold mud and listen to bullets puncturing his plane.

Hours dragged by. He shivered in his soaking wet clothes. As darkness settled over no-man’s land, the constant sniping at Bullard finally ended. Should he run for it?

Without warning, voices emerged from a shell-destroyed forest behind him. Bullard whirled around. With a sigh of relief, he realized they were speaking French.

“Ah, Monsieur Bullard, I see you are still alive.” It was Bullard’s aircraft mechanic. “We are here to transport your pathetic airplane back for repair.”

A group of mechanics and soldiers appeared out of the shadows. The men quickly dragged Bullard’s plane to a safe area out of sight. In no time, the mechanics had the SPAD’s wings removed. They lifted the fuselage onto a flat transport wagon hitched to two horses, loaded the wings and tied everything down. Bullard and the men hopped into the back of a truck. They headed for the airfield a few miles away.

“I counted 96 holes in your machine, Bullard,” the mechanic said. “None in you. You’re a lucky man.”

Yes, lucky. Bullard reflected on that. How did a black Georgia boy like me wind up flying for the French Lafayette Corps?