[justshootit20]

this story was written in corespondense with a book called Roll Of Thunder Hear My Cry it was a book mostly about rasicm in the early 1920's and i wrote about The Tuskegee Airmen, the first black corp of fighter pilots. Tell me what you think and sorry if there's spelling mistakes.
here it is:

August 19, 1941
“Where you goin’ son?”
“Tuskegee, Training Camp.”
“Never heard of it. You’ll have to show me where it is. You can throw your stuff in the back and then hop in.”
A door opened and then slammed. With a roar of an engine the car headed down the road.
January 2 1942
The engine of a P-40F War hawk roared to life as the Alabama sun started to peek over the eastern horizon.
The radio screeched to life, “Control to Skylark IV, you are clear for take off.”
“Roger Control, Skylark out.”
Gently taxiing the bird onto the runway the pilot reached up with his other hand to close the sliding hatchback on his cockpit. The clear glass on the cockpit created a blinding glare in the early morning sun. But the throb of the engine grew steadily louder as the pilot inched the throttle forward, breaking the early morning tranquility.
The plan raced down the runway the prop pulling it along. The nose lifted gently of the black tarmac. Following the nose the tail lifted too sending the plane into the air.
“Alright Sackie, time to show us your stuff. You’ve been through preliminaries, lets see your performance in one of these babies.” The squad commander said talking to the pilot of the P-40.
“Yes sir.” Pilot Trainee Jack Sackie replied with anticipating enthusiasm while leveling the plane.
“First run will be due north for 1 kilometer then 132 degrees to the target range, there we’ll do some routine target practice.”
Nudging the stick over a little bit he turned to the north then straightened out. Pushing the throttle forward he reached cruising speed at 250 miles per hour.
Jack had finally completed his dream. Well, almost. Ever since he has been a kid sharecropping on some greedy plantation owner’s property, he’d wanted to fly. Then they had opened the Tuskegee training camp for African American fighter pilots when he was 20. He’d hitchhiked all the way from Mississippi to Tuskegee, Alabama to enroll. Luckily they had let him in off the street.
Now he was on his way to earning the silver wings of a U.S. Army Combat Pilot. Most likely they would ship him out to North Africa for combat duty as soon as his company graduated.
Glancing at the flight panel, Sackie watched the flight distance click to 1 km then he adjusted the plane to 132 degrees toward the target range with images of combat glory in his head.
March 7, 1942
“Pilot Sackie”
Jack stepped forward with a grim set face. A commander was standing there in front of him with a sheet of paper in one hand and in the other he held the most prized possession that Jack could hope for. The commander reached towards Jack’s left chest with his hand not holding the paper. In a brief movement he removed his hand and moved to the next man in line while Sackie stepped back into the formation.
The silver gleam reflected into Jacks eyes off his khaki uniform and a slow smile started to creep over his face, but he quickly wiped it off as the commander returned saying something.
“…and so you young men are some of the first Negroes to graduate from flight combat school. You are set apart from others by dignity and pride and whatever you do, be prepared in body and mind. Take you machine to its limits. Do not underestimate the enemy, even if they are filthy Japs. And above all else be brave if your defeated, or you will find yourself undeserving. Dismissed.”
The small company of flyboys snapped to attention in their crisp tan uniform and gave a stiff salute as the commander returned one. With that the commander left and the newly achieved pilots, all of which were African Americans, milled around talking to each other.
Then the parents were allowed to come down off the bleachers. Each boy’s parents greeted him with wide toothy smile. There were hugs and kisses shared between child and parents. While everyone was enjoying their congratulations, Jack stood off in a corner isolated from the merriment, fingering and admiring his newly acquired silver wings of a U.S. Army Combat pilot. While he did so his mind went back to the days when his parents laughed and cried with him in their Mississippi home. Now they no longer walked those rows of cotton inspecting them to see if they were rip, with him tagging along shouting with glee when they announced picking time was right around the corner.
They would never sit and talk in front of the fire again. He would never doze off while listening to the steady drone of their voices from up in to loft. It all happened some fast. One night the house caught on fire. Luckily Jack was able to jump from the loft and crawl to safety sustaining only a broken leg, but somehow his parents had been trapped and never came out of the remains of the house.
“...going down town to the diner to celebrate. You comin’.”
Jack snapped out of his daydreaming. Looking up he saw his graduate buddies standing in front of him.
“Sure.” Sackie replied giving a forced smile.
Standing up he followed his group of friends to a parking lot and picked up a ride with one of them into town. Later they pulled into a place with a peeling sign out front and on it the remains of “Penny’s Diner.” They parked and went inside the restaurant.
The smell of burger grease and fries greeted them as they entered. White face looked up from their food and greeted them with unfriendly eyes as they realized the flyboys and their family’s were black.
The small group walked to the back of the shop where a section was marked off and labeled “Black Use Only” and sat down.
The server was nicer to them being polite as she server them. But never did anyone look at them with kind eyes but only cold hard eyes with hate. Jack finished his meal with a knot in his stomach. As the group leaving he overheard a conversation,“… look at those black ______s. Thinking they’re important because they are some of the first black pilots to graduate. I say they keep their black…”
Jack had walked out the door in disgust not wishing to over hear anymore of the men’s small talk.
July 20, 1943
“Boogie, Boogie 10 o’ clock high!”
Swinging his head to the left and a little up Jack reached for his oxygen mask and secured it over his nose and mouth.
“Keep the bombers flyin’ boys.”
The squad of P-51 Mustangs called the Lonely Eagles, had just brought a bomber squadron through a bombing raid on and oil refinery in Vienna. So far no bombers had taken any critical hits, just a few minor hits here and there but they were in good shape.
“Boogies comin’ in low 8 o’ clock.”
Sackie, sticking close to the bombers to protect them, waited for the enemy to attack.
An urgent cry came over the radio, “I got one on my tail…don’t know how he got there…I CAN’T SHAKE ‘IM!”
Jack dropped out of formation seeing he was the closest to the two planes.
“I got him.” Jack said keeping his eyes on the two.
Yellow streaks leapt from the enemy’s plane seeking to rip the fuselage off Jack’s combat buddy’s plane. Falling behind the Focke Wulf, bearing the hated German swastika, Jack put his sights on the body of the German plane and pulled the trigger releasing a volley of bullets, connecting in the hull of the craft and ripping up the back of plane shattering the cockpit.
Watching with grim eyes, Jack saw the plane explode throwing debris throwing debris his way.
“Splash one Jerry.” Jack called into his radio.
“Yee-haw!” some one shouted with excitement.
The radio was swarmed with chatter; calls for help shouts of excitement and screams of agony as some one was shot out of the air. The dogfight continued with Jack shooting up another German. When just a couple enemy fighters were left one of them slipped through the P-51 escort and opened up on a single bomber. The German shot out one engine and the bomber was sent peeling out of formation. Jack chased the enemy aircraft away from the squadron and another P-51 pilot shot him down.
“They’re on the run!” the radio squeaked
Jack sighed with relief. Luckily, he hadn’t been hit but it had come close.
“We need some fighter support over here,” the wounded bomber said through the intercom.
Jack pulled over next to the bomber, noticing that he had shut down the engine that had been hit. Right now, they were easy pickers for enemy aircraft and they were still in hostile territory. When they reached the Adriatic Sea, they were safe from the Germans. Jack looked at the fuel gauge and noticed he was fairly low. Radioing the bomber, he asked if he could make it home ok.
“That’s affirmative flyboy. Hey what’s say name, I’d like to meet you to thank you in person and buy you a drink cause you saved our lives.” The bomber replied.
Jack suddenly pulled closer to the bomber letting them see his face and saying, “You wouldn’t want to do that “boss”.”
The bomber noticed Sackie was black but said, “I’ll greet you with a bottle of the best in each hand.”
With that, they broke formation and headed separate ways.
April 8, 1944
Ratatatatatatatata
“He’s on my tail! I can’t lose him!” Jack was screaming franticly into the radio calling for help.
Looping to the right again, he watched bullets zip past his wings only inches away. Three bullets found their mark on the P-51 that Jack was flying. Hitting the oil tank, they caused oil to spew from the tank and into the air. Watching the oil with dismay, Jack realized if he lived he would have to set down early because of his oil loss but right now he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Jack broke to the right. Bullets ripped through the cockpit passing through Jack and shattering the control board. Jack let out a feeble cry and a last volley form the German craft behind Jack found their way to the engine creating a gold orange explosion ending Jacks life long dream.
The war continued and the African American fighter pilots did exceptionally well. Out of 200 bomber escort missions the Tuskegee Airmen never lost a single bomber. During WWII 66, men were killed in action and 33 others became POW’s.
Racism continued in the armed forces until 1948 when President Truman officially desegregated the Armed Forces.
-The End

*Note- This is not a true story