James Ivan Kinchloe sat on his bunk and looked out at the brilliant orange sunset. Can't see that in Detroit, he thought ironically. He had left home several months ago to pursue a longtime dream of flying. But there was more to it than that, and he wasn't stupid enough to think anyone believed him when he said there wasn't.
Detroit was a rough place to live at the moment. Race riots had broken out last year, and there were bound to be more of them as the whites protested the movement of Negroes into their neighborhoods. Well, where are we supposed to go: Canada? Kinchloe thought with some bitterness. The Civil War had ended nearly eighty years ago. When would people learn to look past the color of a man's skin to determine his worth?
Someone knocked on the window in front of Kinchloe and hitched a thumb sideways. Kinchloe nodded; it was his friend, William Carver, trying to rouse him to the cafeteria for dinner. Carver disappeared and Kinchloe sighed, not ready to let go of memories quite yet, though they were not the most pleasant thoughts.
His mind was still drifting, this time back to the argument he had had with his parents about going down to Alabama to join the Civilian Pilots Training Program at the Tuskegee Institute. He knew money was tight, and his pay from the telephone company, though modest, helped keep food on the table. But sometimes a man had to act, and he told them as much one night while his sister listened from the next room, and his little brother watched, fascinated, even though their parents had told him in no uncertain terms to get out. "They are letting colored men train to fly, Dad. To take part in the war!"
"A war against racism," spat his mother. "And what has this country ever done for you? They fight racism in Europe, and do nothing about it right under their own noses. Why help them?"
"Mom," Kinchloe had answered, doing his best to remain calm, "this is a first step. Can't you see? Even the First Lady is behind it. If the president's wife is pushing for equal status, do we have the right to ignore it? To do nothing about something that could help blacks in the next generation? People like Joseph?" he asked, making a vague gesture toward the teenager sitting at the kitchen table beside them.
"James." Kinchloe's dad stepped in, ever the peacemaker. The voice of quiet reason. "Do you want to do this because of the racial issue? Or do you want to do this because you want to help the war effort? Or because you want to fly?"
Kinchloe paused and thought before answering. "All three, Dad." His father nodded. "It's true." He turned to his mother. "Mom, you know I want to fly. They're offering training at Tuskegee for black men—when else would I get the chance? If we can help get rid of race problems in Europe, maybe we can start getting rid of them here. You know it's what I want to do." His mother looked unconvinced. "Please," he finished, taking her hands.
Almost reluctantly, she turned her face back toward her son. She looked in his deep brown eyes and saw the fire and the passion in them, and sighed. "Then you have to go," she said simply. She put a hand on his cheek. "Life will be better for you," she said firmly. "And you'll help make it even more fulfilling for the little ones."
Kinchloe smiled. "Thanks, Mom. I promise I'll do everything I can."
Now, sitting on his bunk on an airbase in England, Kinchloe smiled again, remembering his mother's touch and her resignation to his dreams. Then another tap on the window startled him back to the present, and he jumped up this time to join his friends for a meal.
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Kinchloe looked wistfully at the planes on the airfield and wondered how long it would be before he had a chance to get in one over the skies of Europe. He was ready now to do his part, fully trained in the art of flying, but he had been stifled as he and the other trainees waited for the higher-ups of the US Army Air Corps to decide how best to use the men they had almost reluctantly agreed to let join in the fight against the Axis powers. It was only through some major wrangling—Kinchloe didn't want to know whose—that he and a handful of other Negroes had been given the nod to head to England to observe planes departing from and returning to the Allies. Kinchloe had been chosen because of his overall aptitude, particularly in navigation and instruments. He had been eager to go and put some of what he had learned into practice, but he was told in no uncertain terms that he would not be flying, and though he was disappointed by the news, he figured at least he would be closer to the action than if he stayed in Alabama, and so he agreed.
"You gonna spend your whole life just watching, boy?"
Kinchloe bristled at the term, but relaxed when he realized it was just their supervisor, Captain Pritchard. Pritchard was in charge of the men from Tuskegee, and he called everyone—black or white—either by their rank, "boy," or some perverted version of their name. It wasn't meant as an insult; it was just that the man had no sense of pronunciation. Pritchard had introduced himself to the recruits in a straightforward way that commanded respect but not fear, loudly denouncing his own parents' choice of names for him.
"I, gentleman, am Captain Richard Ignatius Pritchard. That's right, boys, Richard Pritchard. God knows what was goin' through my mama's head when I was born. I have been called many things in my time… Ricky, Iggy, RIP, Rick the—well, you get the idea." A ripple of boylike giggles swept the room. "But to you boys, I am Captain Pritchard, at least to my face. You can call me anything you like when I'm not around, it won't make one damn bit of difference to me. But I will expect your respect when we are in this room, on the field, or in a plane."
The room fell silent. One man dared to speak. "Captain Pritchard, sir. In a plane?"
"That's right. Who are you again, boy?"
"Michael Wyler, sir."
"You have a rank, Willer?"
"Sergeant, sir."
"Then use it, Sergeant! Why do you think we gave you one, just so yer mail could have a pretty little name on it? Now what's your name, boy?"
"Sergeant Michael Wyler, sir."
"Sergeant Whyter," Pritchard answered, pleased, "you should not be questioning the idea of getting in an airplane. If you're here, then that's what you were born and bred for. I'm not expecting the US Army Air Corps to feed your sorry butts and make you any fatter than you already are. You are gonna work for your meals, boys, and that means getting up in the air where you were trained to be."
The men from Tuskegee could only look at each other and wonder.
Now, as the day began and Kinchloe was dreaming, Pritchard came to stand beside the young man and pointed out at the airfield. "I asked if you were gonna spend your whole life just watching."
Kinchloe shook his head slowly. "No, sir. I sure hope not."
"I've watched you watchin', boy. What's your name? Keemo?"
"Kinchloe, sir."
"Right. Kilmo, you got some brains. You got some drive. You got some energy. We're gonna start usin' 'em. You all right with that, boy?"
"I'd be grateful, Captain."
Pritchard nodded and said nothing for a moment. Then he asked quietly, "You black fellas makin' out all right on base?"
Kinchloe shrugged. "We do all right."
"Nobody botherin' you? Making life difficult for you?"
Kinchloe thought back to his first few days on the base. He felt like eyes bored into him wherever he went, and once, when walking on his own back to his barracks, he felt distinctly uncomfortable when he spied a group of white soldiers who seemed to be trailing him from a distance. His mind immediately went back to those walks back to his family home when he had to vary his route or risk having his pay stolen from him by one thug while two others pinned him down. So brave, he thought bitterly. Need all three of you to hold down one honest black man. But the men trailing him that day on the base had done nothing, just watched, and he never saw them again. "No, sir," is all Kinchloe said now. "Nobody's saying a thing."
"They don't have to, though, do they?" Pritchard said knowingly.
Kinchloe shook his head. "No, sir. They don't."
"You ever see a Bristol Beaufighter, Sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"We got one comin' for a visit in the next few days. Might be worth you lookin' 'em up."
Pritchard turned and quietly walked away.
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Even as he sat studying the information he had been able to gather, Kinchloe felt like a fool. Why was he bothering to learn about the British fighter? It would be interesting, sure, but what kind of spin was he putting on Pritchard's words? Did he really expect to be allowed to fly one?
Twin engines, four cannons… maximum speed 323 miles per hour… climb rate 1850 feet per minute…Funny-looking plane, look at the nose…. Still, I'd take a chance flying any plane at this rate, even one that looks like this. Who am I kidding? Pritchard was just making conversation, wants me to learn more. That's fine, but it won't get me in the air.
"Come on, Kinchloe, it's time for morning training, man."
Kinchloe looked up, bleary-eyed. He hadn't realized it, but he had been up most of the night. He'd have to work hard to look sharp this morning.
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"You have a good look at that Beaufighter, Kilmo?"
"Kinchloe," the young man corrected, though he knew it would make no difference. "Yes, sir, I did."
"What do you think of it?"
"It's got a funny-looking nose."
Pritchard shook his head. "Of all people, Sergeant, I thought you'd know better than to judge somethin' by how it looks."
Kinchloe considered thoughtfully as Pritchard walked away.
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"Our friends the Poms—I mean the members of the Royal Air Force—have been kind enough to loan us this Bristol Beaufighter. Now I know it's not the same as the planes you boys have trained on yourselves, but let's face it: the chance of you flyin' anything in this war is slim to none, so you might as well familiarize yourself with everything you can. Who knows, maybe some of you boys'll end up defecting to the Brits—and they'll let anything fly, just look at some of their pilots."
Kinchloe shook his head. Pritchard could hate everybody equally. But somehow he suspected there was no hatred in the man at all, just a general cynicism that kept him going.
"I'll be heading up in this baby later on today; I expect you'll be able to tell me everything on her control panel by tomorrow. Now, back to the huts and get yourselves ready for your ten mile hike!"
A collective groan went through the ranks. "Or should I make that fifteen!"
Quiet suddenly broke out and the men dispersed without another word.
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Pritchard didn't stop suiting up for his flight even when he saw Kinchloe approaching.
"Just having another look, sir. You're just about ready to go, are you?"
"Sure am." Pritchard adjusted his flight suit and got ready to board. "Are you coming, Kinchstow?"
"Sir?"
"You aren't going to learn anything sitting here on your ass watching planes go up and down, son. Are you coming with me or not?"
"But, sir, I haven't been trained to fly a Beaufighter."
"Neither have I. Hell of a way to learn, don't you think, Kinslow?"
"I… I'm only supposed to be here observing, sir."
"Don't be a pansy, Sergeant. Did you join the US Army Air Corps to fight, or to run?"
Kinchloe swallowed. "To fight, sir."
"Then let's go." Pritchard blew a last big blast of smoke from his cigar.
"Sir, are you sure I won't get in any trouble?" He swallowed his pride, then said, "You're under order not to let Negroes fly, aren't you?"
Pritchard chewed the end of his cigar clean off. "Damn it, boy, we're out here fighting the Krauts, the Nips, the Wogs….got Brits all over and Yanks surroundin' 'em. Black fellas is the last thing I got to worry about. Now git your gear and get movin'." Kinchloe nodded and pulled on the flight suit Pritchard magically shoved at him from nowhere. "Hey, Kinchmow."
Kinchloe stopped dressing, worried that Pritchard had suddenly changed his mind. "Captain?"
"When you gonna get a name that I can pronounce?"
Kinchloe smiled, relieved. "After today, Captain, you can call me anything you want."
Pritchard grinned back. "How 'bout I just call you Kinch. You a'right with that?"
"Yes, sir," Kinchloe answered. "That sounds fine to me."
(To be continued)
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Author's notes: The Tuskegee Airmen did not start flying for the US Army Air Corps until the middle of 1943, and although they did train in both fighters and bombers, they did not actually man bombers until after World War Two. When they did fly, they started out in the Mediterranean before becoming known by the enemy as "The Black Birds". They flew their P-51s proudly, covering the tails in bright red paint so the bombers would know exactly who was escorting them into enemy territory. To my knowledge, no members of the Tuskegee group were ever sent to England to simply observe tactics and maneuvers; this was device was simply used to suit the Hogan's Heroes timeline without warping the reality of the Tuskegee.