Free Air Force Eagles by Walter J. Boyne Page A

of course they're not taking on any Negroes. I thought about seeing if I could get back into the Air Force, but after our problems at Lockbourne, I decided against it."
    Saundra's smile was tight. "No, no more Lockbournes, please."
    The old man's manner softened. "I have to tell you, son, I was worried when you left the Air Corps." He would never call it anything else but Air Corps. "I knew that when that McTaggart outfit offered you a job, they didn't know you were colored."
    "McNaughton, Dad. And they must have known; there was a box to check for race on the application, and I told them that I'd learned to fly at Tuskegee and fought overseas with the 332nd. No white boys did that!"
    "No matter. When somebody realized who—and what—you were, they took care of things. Just like I said they would."
    His mother broke in. "Amen. He said that the very day we got your letter saying you were going to work for them."
    John Sr. looked at her and smiled. They'd been together thirty-five years now, survived two wars, a depression, and two race riots, one in Detroit, and the other in East St. Louis. They'd had five children, and three had lived to maturity. She was still a good-looking woman.
    "What's this business you're in now?"
    "I don't know a whole lot, and most of what I know I can't tell. All I can tell you is that I've got a job, flying for a foreign government, and the pay is good—six hundred dollars a month, as long as I'm there."
    "Six hundred dollars a month! Whooee! Sure beats a dollar a day at the foundry. But where are you going, John?"
    "That's what I can't tell you. As soon as I can, I will, and I won't be gone any longer than I have to. If Saundra can stay here with you, I can save a lot of money, and maybe come back and start a business of my own."
    "You know that Saundra's welcome here. You just be sure you come back." He paused. "It's not this 'ace' thing, is it, son? You don't have to prove yourself to anyone, you've already done that."
    John Marshall flushed; as usual his dad was on target.
    "No, no, Dad, it's nothing like that."
    His father smiled and said, "Son, you forget a daddy can tell when his son is fibbing, and you're fibbing now. I just hope it's a good cause."
    "It is; you'd join yourself if you knew what it was." Then he laughed and added, "'Course, you're not exactly in the line of work they'd want to use," and made his father angry because he wouldn't tell him any more.
    That night Saundra lay next to him, cradled in his arms, crying softly because he was leaving, again. His parents, knowing they would want to be alone, had said good-bye that afternoon, driving to St. Louis in their two-tone gray 1940 Nash Ambassador to see the Reverend's sister. The elder Marshall loved the Nash because the front seat folded back to make a bed, and they never had to worry about finding a place to stay that would accept Negroes. They packed a big hamper of food, slept in the car by the side of the road, and used the woods for a restroom.
    "Don't cry, honey, not on our last night for a while."
    "I should be better at this. We've had almost as many 'last nights' as we've had nights together."
    It was true. They'd been married less than a year when he went off to flying school—just in time, it turned out; a few months later married men weren't being admitted to the program. Since then only his job with McNaughton had given them any kind of home life, even though the little house they'd rented in the desert had been lonely and primitive. There'd been no place for her—no place livable—when he came back to Tuskegee, and their experience at Lockbourne was too painful to recall.
    "Do you mind staying here? Would you rather go back and live with your mother?"
    "Never! I love her, but I hate being with her. Mother is always scrubbing life on the washboard of religion. Your parents are so different—you're so different."
    "That's why you love me so." They kissed for a long while, and she pulled away to ask, "What's