No Crystal Stair (9 page)

F
irst Lieutenant Robert Metcalf gently pulled back the stick and eased the throttle forward to lift the P-40 into the air. He felt the same thrill of excitement he always felt when the plane began to soar onward, upward, farther and farther from the red clay hills of Tuskegee, from the hangars and rooftops, the green trees and farmlands that dotted the landscape.

Release. Escape. An exhilarating sense of freedom coursed through him as the river became a band of ribbon, the trees like tiny shrubs. Alone, enclosed in his capsule, he was safe—far above petty jealousies and prejudices. Free!

He sent the plane forward at high speed, then turned sharply, moving in the opposite direction, looped, dived and just in time shot upward. Over and over, all the maneuvers he'd learned, and then he practiced new ones of his own making. Soaring, circling, somersaulting and loving every minute of it—the quick response of the plane to his touch, the sheer power.

The power. So vastly different from gliders, always subject to air currents. It was more than six years since he'd built and flown gliders at Tech High. But that was where he'd first experienced the joy of flying. He had been even more fascinated by the structure and design of planes, had won a prize for a special design of his own.

Yep, it was the gliders that had started the urge to pilot engine driven planes. Not that he'd ever expected to have the chance. He supposed it was football that gave him the chance.
His high-school coach had insisted on college prep courses. “You can get a scholarship just like that.” He was right.

Fresno State had snapped Rob up. And in his junior year, Fresno was chosen as one of the colleges to implement the Civilian Pilot Training Course, sponsored by the U.S. Army Air Corps. Rob was one of the first to sign up.

He thought of those little planes in which he'd learn to fly.
Crop duster! Couldn't touch you, baby!
He ran a loving hand across the instrument panel of the P-40. Still, it was in those fragile little planes that he got his first taste of flying. It had been fun, just as everything at college had been fun, particularly the football that was paying his tuition. More than tuition. Adulation, prestige—he was “Flash” Metcalf, Fresno's halfback and co-captain of the team. He was also part of the team in the Civilian Pilot Training program, one of twenty who finished the course.

Part of the team. He felt a painful stirring deep in his chest as he remembered. He had been so stupid. So excited when the notice came from the Army. Joe Tillman, one of his teammates had alerted him.

“Hey, Flash, you seen the bulletin board?”

Rob shook his head. He never checked the board except at exam time. “Gotta go, man. Late.” He started running for his psychology class.

Joe tagged along. “You gotta see it. The Army wants to sign us up.”

“Army?” Rob frowned, never missing a stride. “Who the hell wants to join the Army?”

“Air Corps,”Joe panted. “Army Air Corps.”

Rob stopped, faced him. “What?”

Joe nodded. “They'll take us as a team. We can all train together, even get in the same squadron.” Joe went on to explain that an Army officer would be at the college the next week to interview those students who had completed the CPT course.

They went wild with excitement. The Army Air Corps! No more crop dusters. Real planes.

Rob again touched the instrument panel. Yes, it was the thought of this plane, this speedy little P-40, that had lured him into the conference room that cold rainy February day. A tall dark-haired man in U.S. Army dress, a major in rank, sat at the front desk, the American flag on his right and a lieutenant standing on his left. Rob and his buddies piled in, jostling, joking, kidding each other.

“You better forget it, shorty. Gotta pass a physical, you know.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you better gain a few pounds, skinny.”

When the major stood to speak, the room fell quiet. He was articulate, well versed in his subject, and the words rolled off his tongue in a crisp New England accent. He spoke of the power and prestige of America. Opportunities and benefits of the Army Air Corps. Honor, duty, democracy. His words excited and inspired, got them keyed up, patriotic, anxious to serve.

As they stood in line to sign up. Joe touched Rob on his back.

“Well, Flash, here we go again.”

Rob nodded. It was good to be joining up with friends. When it was his turn, he stood in front of the major, smiling eagerly.

The major looked up and his eyes narrowed. “Just what the hell are you doing here?”

He hadn't understood. Somewhat surprised at the man's tone, he'd simply answered, “I... well, I'm here to sign up with the rest of the guys.”

“The United States Army Air Corps is not looking for night fighters. Get out of this line!”

Stunned, Rob stood silent.

The major's face reddened and he bellowed, “Move! Get the hell out of this line!”

Everyone had stopped talking. Rob was rooted to the spot. Humiliation burned in his face as he began to understand.
Damn! How could he have been so naive? But when you didn't expect it... when you were sailing along, part of a group and—

“What's the matter with you? Can't you understand English? I told you to get out of this line.”

The young lieutenant moved then, pulled Rob to one side of the room. “Listen, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but the truth is ... well, it's regulation. Negroes are not admitted to the Air Corps.”

Several of the other guys had followed and crowded around them.

“What's the matter?”

“Why can't he get in?”

Rob walked away as the lieutenant began to explain. As he slammed out the door he heard their protest.

“Damn shame! America? Ain't that hell? Stinks, man!”

Joe ran after him. “Damn it. Flash, if you can't go, I'm not going.”

“Don't be a fool. Go back in there.” Not looking at Joe, Rob walked rapidly down the corridor to the outer door.

“Wait. Maybe we can talk to ... to somebody.” Joe said. “If we—”

“That's okay, Joe. Don't spoil your chance on my account.”

Joe stood with his papers in his hand, staring after Rob as he strode from the building. Rob did not turn back. He walked rapidly, heedless of the rain. Glad of the rain. No one could tell he was crying.

Why, Rob wondered now as he took his plane through the various maneuvers, had he felt ashamed?

He gave an angry snort.

That was how they made you feel! Like something was wrong with you for being what you were. That was the way he'd felt long ago in Nevada when he'd gone in with the rest of the high school football team to get a hamburger and that bastard
had refused to serve him. That day the other guys had walked out with him, leaving their shakes and burgers behind.

He couldn't blame his Fresno classmates for not walking. There was more than hamburgers at stake. So it was not with resentment but with envy that Rob watched his teammates depart for their Air Corps careers.

Still, it had galled him. He was qualified. More qualified than some of them. And he wanted to fly.

He tried the Navy. They were only taking Negroes as mess personnel.

The Marines. They weren't taking Negroes at all.

His mother didn't understand. “Why are you trying so hard to get in? Everybody says we'll soon be in the war.”

“Do you know any other way I can learn to fly?” he asked, and added. “If we do enter the war, I'd rather be in the air than in the trenches.”

So he wrote letters. To senators, congressmen, President Roosevelt, Mrs. Roosevelt. The answers, those he received, only confirmed that Negroes were not accepted in the Air Corps.

He felt very much alone, and was only dimly aware that other people like himself and other groups were also clamoring for the admittance of Negroes into all areas of the armed services. Nor did he realize that steps were being taken toward this purpose. He was both surprised and ecstatic when, early in May, an issue of the Pittsburgh Courier, a Negro newspaper, proclaimed in big headlines: NEGROES NOW ACCEPTED IN U.S. ARMY AIR CORPS.

Newspaper in hand, Rob rushed to the post office. The recruitment officer who by this time, was well acquainted with him, grinned.

“That's good enough for me, I'll sign you up.”

He did so, and a few weeks later a jubilant Rob was ordered to report to Moffett Field in Sunnyvale, California. He was in.

Rob grimaced. Correction. He
thought
he was in.

At Moffett he passed his physical with flying colors. It was when he reported to a Major Johnson in building 201 that he ran into trouble. Steely blue eyes regarded him coldly, studied his college transcript, turned coldly back to Rob.

“You don't have junior standing.”

“Oh yes, sir,” Rob said. He knew that the requirement was two years of college. “I'm a senior. I've completed three years of college.”

“It doesn't say you have junior standing. I don't see that anywhere here.”

“But, sir, I have three years. That's more than—”

“Sorry,” The major perused the papers in his hand. “I don't see anything here that says you have junior standing,” he glared at Rob.

Rob stared back, trying to control the fury that was now pounding at his temples. Neither of them noticed the chubby young corporal at a nearby desk. He had listened intently to their conversation and now spoke.

“Sir, there's an exam he can take in lieu of the college requirement.”

“Oh, we won't be giving that until sometime next year,” the major answered.

“Oh, but sir,” said the corporal. “There's going to be one next month.”

Now the major turned his baleful glare on the corporal.

Rob, however, flashed him a grateful smile. “Sir?” he asked the major. “Do you have any material on this exam? I'd like to take it.”

“Don't have a thing.”

“But, sir,” the young corporal said, “here's some.” He reached into a drawer and handed Rob a stack of pamphlets.

If looks could kill, the corporal would have been dead on the spot. The major reddened, but said nothing. Rob took the
papers thanked the young man profusely. He fervently hoped the corporal wouldn't be busted.

Back home Rob studied the paper, heavy with trigonometry and calculus. He hoped he wouldn't have to take the exam. He explained his problem to the dean of college.

“You could pass it, but you don't have to take it,” the enraged dean declared. He took a sheet of college stationery and wrote in oversized letters: ROBERT METCALF HAS ATTAINED JUNIOR STATUS AT FRESNO STATE COLLEGE. He had the paper notarized and sent by certified mail to the major.

Several weeks passed and Rob heard nothing. Finally he appealed to a congressman who had answered one of his letters. The congressman promised to look into the matter. Eventually he wrote to Rob, saying he'd talked with the army officials who were unable to find any records for Robert Metcalf. After all the red tape had been unraveled, it was found that Rob's papers had been pigeonholed at Moffett. The major had simply declined to send his papers any farther. However, a letter from the congressman indicated that Rob would be taken into the Air Corps within the next month.

Now, high in his plane over Tuskegee, Rob laughed out loud, suddenly recalling one of the old spirituals his mother used to sing. “So high, you can't get over it / So low, you can't get under it / So wide, you can't get around it / You must come in at the door.”

Well, all right. So he had to come in the
back
door.”

Back door, hell! A whole new facility for persistent niggers like himself—very separate and nothing like equal. There hadn't even been barracks when he first arrived. He and his fellow cadets had to sleep in tents. But most of the buildings were up now and the field was flourishing.

Candidates for the New Negro Air Corps were never a problem, and after Pearl Harbor, enrollment had soared. Qualifications were high, but even so it was easier to get in than to stay in.

Rob's mouth twisted as he remembered the tense difficult months until he made it through to graduation. More than two-thirds of the men washed out, sometimes the day before graduation. Many never knew why. Attitude, a frequent disqualification, could mean anything from a minor infraction of the dress code to being a bit too cocky in dealing with one of the white administrative officers in charge of the base. Or, perhaps, a passing remark, voicing exception to the picket fence hat separated white from colored in the base cafeteria. The prejudices that had so long barred them from the Air Corps had followed then in.

Might keep us out of the damn war, Rob thought now. If I were white, I would've been sent overseas two weeks after my graduation. I bet Joe and the others have been in the fight and come back by now. But here it is February, nine months later, and promotion from a second to first lieutenant, and I'm still flying around and around the Southeast U.S.

He executed a marvelous chandelle and grinned. Cut the griping nigger! You're flying, ain't you? And if you'd taken off with your buddies from Fresno, you'd have been in the cannon's mouth long ago and you'd never have met Ann Elizabeth.

Ann Elizabeth. The thought of her sent warmth through his whole being. Now he returned to earth with an eagerness and anticipation he'd never felt before she'd come here. He made short detour to circle Mrs. Anderson's house, swooped low and dipped his wings to let her know he was heading home.

At the base he made his usual smooth landing, shouted the usual greetings to the other airmen. His steps quickened as he left the plane and headed for operations. He signed in and started down the hall. He stopped as he passed two rest rooms, one marked COLORED, the other WHITE.

He glanced around. The hall was deserted. Quickly he took the crew knife from his pocket and pried the signs from the
doors. He shoved them into a nearby wastebasket, then walked away whistling.