Pilot looks for kid to live his dream

Rachael Levy

Thursday, Aug. 21, 1997 | 10:03 a.m.

Russell Desvignes' body was a time bomb, ticking. Death approached, but the old bomber pilot brushed the thought away and concentrated on dragging his body through a set of exercises.

The stroke had stolen the use of his left leg and he struggled with the long hours of physical therapy.

The tiny blood clot that hemorrhaged in his brain had also burst the old bomber pilot's chance to fly with the Air Force Thunderbirds. But there was no time to mourn lost opportunities.

What must be done to graduate? he asked. Climb a flight of stairs with only the use of a cane, the orderly replied.

Russell looked at the row of steps. Three weeks and three flights of stairs later, Russell walked out the door. Seven days later, he threw away the cane.

But it was harder for Russell to toss away his wish to fly again. It had taken him until age 22 to learn to dream and he faced down racism and institutional prejudice to become one of the military's first black bombers.

His training at the segregated military flight school at Tuskegee Army Airfield opened the doors for younger blacks, but Russell was prevented from pursuing the military or commercial flight as a career.

When he learned the military was looking for minorities to send to the U.S. Air Force Academy, Russell thought he could pass on his dream to another. But the kids he talked to didn't have the grades or interest, and his spirit sunk and his daughter and grandson worried.

Every now and then, a neighbor's kid came by to talk to Russell about his days as a cadet flying his trainer plane over Alabama cotton fields.

The kid said he wanted to be a pilot and go to the Air Force Academy. The words filtered through the layers of numbness that Russell had raised and he began to think again, to feel.

And the old dream, long thought dead, flared strong again, and Russell wondered. Was this the one to share his dream, to go in his place?

The kid would need a 3.5 grade point average and be strong in mathematics and science. Military school was an intellectual drill. Instructors fired questions with a speed meant to flush out the unprepared.

Many kids weren't ready. They hadn't taken the college prep courses and didn't know the discipline of studying. But Russell looked at the teen and began working on the congressional sponsorship necessary for acceptance into the academy.

Russell's health returned and he enjoyed riding the commercial airlines, which he could get cheap flights because his daughter and grandson both worked at McCarran International Airport.

He always asked for a window seat near the wing, a prime spot to watch the pilot's moves and anticipate the take-off. He liked to listen to the engine and watch the flaps and spoilers move. And he could predict and grade the quality of the landings based on the amount of yo-yoing on the throttle.

As Russell's spirit grew, so did the time between the kid's visits. When he finally asked the boy's mother about her son, Russell knew the answer: The boy didn't make the grades.

Russell teamed up with a few other black World War II pilots and organized a Nevada chapter of the Tuskegee Airmen Inc., which offered college scholarships to underprivileged youth. The veterans toured schools and youth groups, searching crowds for a kid interested in a career in aviation.

Even at a Costco store, Russell kept his one good eye on duty. He sat eating a hot dog at the front of the store when a boy walked up, carrying a book, hot dog and pocket change. The kid set the change down on the table and took a bite.

What are you reading? Russell asked.

American history, the boy replied.

Do you know the difference between $1 and that book? Russell asked.

The boy took the bait and asked.

That dollar is easily and foolishly spent, Russell said, but put that book in your head and nobody can take it from you. The more books you put in your head, the more money you have in your hand, he said.

Russell kept searching even after the bomb ticked and colors shattered his vision. In the hospital he learned his brain and eye had lost oxygen for a split second, a warning of an impending second stroke, doctors said. Russell brushed the threat of death aside.

He sent a 12-year-old a poster of some bombers being escorted by Tuskegee pilots and reproduced the old photograph of him in his crisp, flight officer's uniform because the 12-year-old wanted to hang it on his wall.

He reviewed the transcript's of an 18-year-old Las Vegas graduate with his baggy pants and strange hair. Russell shook his head at the young man's 2.0 grade point average and multiple F's in Algebra.

For three hours he talked to the kid about flying and girls and life after high school. He would have to pull a 3.5 GPA at a community college, Russell said, before the academy would ignore his high school record.

For three hours the kid listened, unaware that Russell had pulled out his mental wish list. Good eyes? Check. Healthy? Check. Smart? Check. The old man glanced at the kid and wondered.