Free The Man Called Brown Condor by Thomas E. Simmons Page B

the back of the Curtiss-Wright classroom the previous Saturday. The field of aviation was growing daily, but was virtually closed to blacks. Nevertheless, John Robinson was determined not only to find a way to enter the field but help others do the same. He would share his knowledge and skills with others for the rest of his life.
    John’s friend from Detroit, Cornelius Coffey, would often commute to Chicago to meet with the study group on weekends and talk about the possibilities of learning to fly. One day Coffey suggested that the study group needed a project. Why couldn’t they build an airplane? It seemed a wild idea at first, but the more the group talked about it, the more they convinced themselves they could do it. There were advertisements in aviation magazines for plans for home-built airplanes. John and Cornelius pooled their money and ordered a set of plans for five dollars from the Heath Airplane Company. They also bought a twenty-seven horsepower motorcycle engine off a wrecked bike and rebuilt it themselves. The Aero Study Group now had a real aviation project.

Chapter 6
But Will It Fly?
    â€œY OU BEEN ACTING NERVOUS AS A CAT, J OHNNY . W HAT YOU SO UPTIGHT about? We almost have our plane ready to assemble and give a try.”
    â€œCornelius, between you and me, that’s exactly what I’m worried about. I agreed the project was a good way for all of us to learn more about aviation, but I didn’t think about what we would do if we actually finished this thing. That’s what’s worrying me. You think about it. Everyone in the group has worked hard. They all studied, learned how to make the patterns, jigs and parts, covered the wings, rib-stitched the fabric, coated it with dope, and painted it. Now we’re assembling the whole thing. After all the hard work, they gonna want to see it tried out. None of us can fly it. How we gonna find someone qualified and willing to fly it? Even if we do find someone crazy enough to try, I don’t think we should let ’em. I mean, we don’t even know if this thing will fly, do we? It could kill somebody.”
    â€œWell, we’ve been doing things right, following the plans, haven’t we? Our figures check out on dimensions and weight and balance. The workmanship looks good, don’t it?”
    â€œYeah, I believe all that. I’m proud of the job everyone’s done. But trying to fly it? I got to tell you that scares the hell out of me.”
    â€œYou and I rebuilt the engine. We know that’s right.”
    â€œIt runs all right, but I think it might not be big enough.”
    â€œWell all I know is everybody’s excited about this thing. They’ve put in a lot of time and sweat. You know that. Some have worked every weekend and all their other spare time and chipped in money when they had it. I bet no other group like ours has ever built an airplane. It don’t have to fly far—just get off the ground, you know, like the Wrights did. They didn’t fly but about a hundred feet or so the first time but it counted. What you gonna tell ’em?”
    â€œI don’t know. Hand me that torque wrench. These propeller attachment bolts have to be tightened exactly right.”
    A few weeks later, John told the whole story to Bill Henderson, the night school instructor at Curtiss-Wright who had not only allowed him in the classroom, but also often stayed after class to answer his questions.
    â€œJohnny, are you pulling my leg, or have you really built a plane?”
    â€œMr. Henderson, the group has built every part according to the plans we bought. Now they have it all ready to take out to a field this Sunday and assemble it. They expect me to find them a flyer to try the thing out.”
    â€œNow wait a minute, John. I think I can guess what you have in mind and the answer is not just no , but hell, no !”
    â€œI’m not asking you to fly it, Mr. Henderson. I just thought maybe you