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

flight.
    â€œAll right,” the voice said. “There’s the field over there to the left. I’ll take it now. You follow me through on the controls and pay attention to the landing pattern, left downwind at eight hundred feet, turn left base down to four hundred feet, turn final for the last four hundred feet. You got that? And don’t forget to look for traffic. I don’t care to die in a midair collision. And keep your feet off the brakes.”
    John released what had been a death grip on the stick. He was covered in sweat. His mouth was dry as cotton. He could feel the convulsions rising up from his stomach. He leaned over the edge of the cockpit and vomited in mixed agony and relief. The spittle was sucked from his lips by the slipstream rushing past. The contents of his stomach flowed back down the fuselage. Spittle spread over his chin, cheeks, and nose like rain over a windshield. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and wiggled the stick to let Snyder know he was still willing to fly. Surprisingly, Snyder let him fly down to landing pattern altitude before taking over. Robinson kept his hands and feet on the controls to get the feel of landing.
    John hardly remembered the touchdown and taxi to the flight line. The sudden silence after the engine stopped snapped him back to time and place. The flight was over. He was relieved, but his arms and legs felt so heavy, he wasn’t sure he could pull himself out of the cockpit. He unfastened his seat belt and removed his helmet. He struggled out of the plane and climbed down from the wing, his clothes stained with sweat and vomit.
    Snyder stood before him, calm, neat, dressed in immaculate khaki jodhpurs, white shirt, black tie, leather jacket, and polished brown boots.
    â€œSame time day after tomorrow, Robinson. That is, unless you decide to quit.”
    John looked at the instructor. “I been wantin’ to fly all my life, and if I can’t learn to fly because of you, Mr. Snyder, then I’m gonna learn to fly in spite of you and all them that thinks I’m a joke.”
    To John’s surprise, he thought he detected a slight smile on Snyder’s face.
    â€œYou just might do that. Now go get that bucket and rag over there by the hangar and clean off the side of this airplane. You’re pretty much a mess, too. If you want to leave by the gate, I’ll log you in, save you a little embarrassment. Next time, bring a paper bag with you.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Snyder. I won’t need no paper bag. I’m gonna be a pilot.”
    â€œDay after tomorrow, Robinson.”
    Snyder turned and left John alone with a very messy airplane. It didn’t matter. John felt a little shaky but determined to have his dream. He filled the bucket with water, picked up the rag, and began to clean the airplane.
    John had intended to catch up on work at his garage after his flying lesson, but he was worn out and still felt a bit queasy. To avoid any friends who might be hanging around to hear about his first flying lesson, he took the back stairs to his room and crawled onto his cot. Staring up at the unpainted ceiling, he couldn’t shut down the voices arguing in his mind. One kept telling him that flying wasn’t worth feeling so bad, that he couldn’t go up again and go through that spinning misery. Somewhere a voice echoed in his mind. Look at you! You can’t even make your supper, much less eat it. They ain’t gonna let a nigger learn to fly. Whoever heard of such a thing? But another voice cried out, You gonna stick it out! You gonna fly, damn it! Finally the voices stopped. John drifted off to sleep.
    There were other voices that afternoon, voices at the flight line shack. A group of instructors and a few students were sitting around, some filling out log books, others drinking coffee.
    â€œDid you see that nigger cleaning off the side of the plane? Snyder must have put him through the