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Robert Burns once wrote: "A man's a man for a' that...". How true when you meet one like Eugene Jacques Bullard, the world's first black combat aviator, who never let them poison him.
BULLARD. Strange music maybe at a time like this, but I don't believe ole Noble Sissle singing and Jimmy Europe's Harlem Hellfighters Band is exactly wrong now. Yep, Eugene Jacques Bullard, me, has up and died here in Harlem. Sonofabitching cancer! I tried hard to fight it, but what bothered me most was when all my friends came by and didn't know what to say. Tried to cheer 'em some, but I guess when you're popular like me there's not much to say.
DICKSON. (Speaking with an exaggerated Southern accent from behind BULLARD.) That's right, and pickaninny heroes maybe eat some of that nice ole watermelon before pickin' a bunch of cotton for de massa.
(BULLARD spins around to face DICKSON, who laughs and slaps him hard on the back. KISLING shakes his head in mock disapproval.)
BULLARD. Oh, God, my favorite cracker! Hi you, Jeff?
DICKSON. My favorite Negro! And Moïse, he's not even from Mississippi!
BULLARD. I bet you the leadin' red-neck of Paris, you ole yokel. Jefferson Davis Dickson from Natchez, Mississippi. Wooey! With a name like that, Moïse, this here lame excuse is nothin' but a noisy ole red-neck.
KISLING. Don't know what that is, but never thought you dishonest, Gene.
BULLARD. You hear that now, Jeff Dickson? You are the original red-neck of Paris.
DICKSON. True as hell, by God! Do I deny it? I do not.
KISLING. Yeah, Jeff, you haven't heard what this hero fool of ours is doing next. Getting shot all to hell in the Legion's not good enough. He's going to fly with a bunch of idiot Americans.
DICKSON. He what?
BULLARD. That's right, Jeff ole boy. I am going to be un aviateur pour la France.