The Man Called Brown Condor (20 page)

Squeezing past the pallets of fuel tins to the rear door, Corriger took a large funnel from its storage place behind the rear cabin bulkhead. He and John stepped out into the heat of Adowa. It was a shock after the cold air that had filled the drafty cockpit at twelve thousand feet. Both men were quick to pull off their leather jackets and seek shade under the wing while they waited for the workers to arrive.

“Time for another lesson,” Corriger said. “We'll oversee the refueling. Never trust anyone to fuel your plane unsupervised. Check the fuel from every tin and filter every drop that goes into your tanks. I discovered a tin from which someone had stolen half the petrol and replaced it with water, or maybe camel piss, both are about the same color around here. On another occasion, an opened tin had been tipped over and some of the fuel spilled. The poor devil who spilled it was so afraid he would be in trouble that he scooped up the puddled fuel with a pan and put what he could save back in the tin. Petrol is precious as gold here, but not when it's full of sand or water. I think you see my point.”

John shook his head. “This is getting to be more fun all the time. How long have you managed to stay alive at this game?”

“Four and a half years, but if war comes, it will be all your game. My government will frown on a Frenchman fighting their neighbors the Italians.”

“Oh! That's just great.”

“Don't blame me. After all, war, if it comes, will be between you Ethiopians and Il Duce.”

“What you mean ‘you Ethiopians'? You know I'm not Ethiopian. My country don't want this boy fighting Italians, either. Remember, I'm supposed to be over here selling airplanes that the League of Nations won't let me import.”

“You will be.” Corriger looked at John with a peculiar smile.

“Will be what?”

“Will be an Ethiopian,
mon ami
.”

“Now tell me just how you figure that.”

“It's simple. When the emperor receives you, he will already have my report on your excellent ability and qualifications. He will honor you by bestowing upon you rank, salary, and Ethiopian citizenship. Surely you will not refuse such an honor from the emperor himself.”

“Did he offer you citizenship?”

“I am afraid the color of my skin prevented him from making such an offer, but he has been most generous in the area of pay. It would be ungrateful of me to complain.
C'est la guerre
.”

A dozen Ethiopians arrived to unload and fuel the plane. John climbed up on the wing and took the funnel from Corriger. It had a chamois skin filter. After chamois leather has first been soaked in fuel, water will not pass through it. The work crew formed a line to pass the tins of fuel down from the plane and carry them to a storage area nearby where they would be hidden under desert-colored canvas and scrub brush. The Fokker FVII b/3 had a range of seven hundred miles. The round trip would be close to nine hundred miles. The last forty tins were passed up to the wing, opened, and their contents emptied into the Fokker FVII b/3 fuel tanks using the chamois filter.

John looked down at Corriger. “You crazy bastard, you won't leave if the Italians start a war.”

“Of course not. But we won't tell France that I am here fighting the Italians and we won't tell America that you are an Ethiopian. We crazy bastards must stick together, no? Now pay attention to the fueling. The precious two hundred gallons they are filtering into our tanks added to the remains of our fuel from the trip out here ought to get us back to Addis Ababa tomorrow . . . if you don't get us lost.”

T
HE SUN BROKE THROUGH THE THINNING CLOUDS TO CHEERFULLY
brighten the morning. John took it as a good omen on the day he was to meet Haile Selassie. The rain had turned the streets to mud but nobody seemed to notice. Robinson picked his way carefully trying to keep his shoes and pants clean until he reached the paved street that ran past the Arat Kilo Ghibi Palace, built by King Menelik in the late nineteenth century. The emperor lived in the Guenete Leul Palace but worked in the Imperial Ghibi Palace. The gate leading onto the palace grounds was guarded by two armed soldiers wearing greenish-khaki uniforms like those of the Belgian army. The smartly uniformed palace guards were special members of the seven thousand strong Imperial Body Guard, the most well equipped military unit in Ethiopia. The members of the palace guard itself were handpicked from a northern tribe noted for their height. Most of them were nearly seven feet tall. John presented the formal invitation he had received the day before. Written in Amharic characters and English beneath the royal seal, it requested his presence at the palace. The ranking guard examined the card, looked Robinson over carefully, motioned for him to wait just inside the gate on the palace grounds, and proceeded to the palace.

Moments later the guard returned with an equally tall man carrying a sword and dressed in white jodhpurs and puttees but no shoes. He motioned Robinson to follow him past two lions chained beside the walk leading up to the palace steps. One lion was asleep. The other watched with deep staring eyes as they passed.

At the top of the steps, John was turned over to the emperor's chamberlain who led him into the palace and down a hall to a pair of massive, beautifully carved doors. With no apparent order given, the doors were swung open by two uniformed guards. Robinson hoped the excitement he felt would not show.

The doorway opened into a large, high-ceilinged room. To the left side was a magnificent carved desk, to the right side stood a cavernous marble fireplace. The focal point sitting on a plush Oriental carpet was a gilt chair upholstered in red brocade and bearing in gold thread a likeness of the imperial crown. The chair, quite large and sitting on a raised platform, was occupied by small man, bearded and dark complexioned with an aquiline nose and the most penetrating black eyes John had ever seen. John bowed slightly before the emperor as he had been instructed by the chamberlain.

The man before him, dressed in an immaculate military uniform, appeared weary, but his eyes reflected both energy and warmth. Robinson was not the first to sense a calm dignity, almost an aura of regal bearing, when in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie I, Emperor of Ethiopia, King of Kings, Elect of God, and Conquering Lion of Judah.

The emperor smiled. With a motion of his hand, he summoned the royal interpreter.

“Mr. Robinson, do you by chance speak French?”

“Just Southern English I'm afraid.”

“I asked because His Majesty speaks French fairly well but English only haltingly.” The interpreter turned to the emperor and bowed, indicating the audience could begin.

The emperor spoke in Ethiopia's national language, Amharic, and the interpreter translated. “His Majesty says we welcome you, John Robinson. We are honored and deeply grateful that you have traveled so far to offer your services to Ethiopia.”

John replied that it was he who was honored to serve His Majesty, a man he had long admired. “I hope my ability as a pilot will be of some value to you and your country.”

The emperor paused often for the interpreter to speak. “His Majesty has studied your qualifications and the reports of your performance by our own air group since your arrival. They are excellent reports. As you must know, we are in the process of training Ethiopian pilots, but none have yet attained the level of your skill and especially your experience. We have therefore continued to rely on our French airmen to lead our air service. If war cannot be avoided—and we pray it will be—but if it cannot, the French staff will be placed in an awkward position. France insists that these men cannot fight against her neighbor, Italy. Belgium, likewise, is anxious to avoid giving offense to Italy. The official Belgian military mission here will be withdrawn in the event of war. We have arranged for certain Belgian volunteers, some from the Congo, to discreetly return as advisors. However, they will not be allowed to enter actual combat and risk embarrassment to their native Belgium. If their nationals were captured, neither France nor Belgian would appreciate being caught in such an international incident. Because of the color of their skin, they certainly could not pass for Ethiopians. Also, in the case of the French pilots, we are afraid our people, under the stress of war, would have natural suspicions of any white ferenjis that might fall from the sky and be captured. We could not guarantee their safety.”

The interpreter continued, “That being said, His Majesty would like for you, John Robinson, to consider the following offer: the rank of colonel and command of the Imperial Ethiopian Air Corps and, of course, Ethiopian citizenship which would protect your country from any similar embarrassment.”

The emperor continued through his interpreter, “We understand your concern. We do not want to endanger your American citizenship. We have discussed this with the honorable Cornelius Van Enger, your country's chargè affaires here in Addis Ababa, and he feels this can be looked upon as dual citizenship. We will refer officially to your service as advisory.

“I admit that our selfish interest will be served by the publicity your activities will generate in the American press, but I ask if this is not one of the reasons you are here?”

John had to agree. “That's true, but not for me personally so much as to help open aviation to blacks in my country. If a black man can prove his flying ability here, a black man should be allowed to do the same in America.”

The emperor nodded.

His interpreter continued, “His Majesty says you will, of course, be properly rewarded for your services. We realize that our offer presents you with a most serious decision. We respect your need for careful consideration. We will, should you refuse the offer, bare the expense of your return to America.”

The meeting was over.

Back at his hotel, John sat in his room for a long while thinking about the offer and what he had seen and learned over the past few weeks. He thought of home and the security of the flying school he had established, which his friend and partner Cornelius Coffey was now running. He had been promised an appointment to head up a school of aviation at Tuskegee when and if necessary funds could be found to establish it. He also knew from what he had seen and learned that should war with Italy come, Ethiopia could not win without help. John was homesick and afraid, but he was no coward.

An aviator who had grown up in Mississippi was now a colonel in the Imperial Ethiopian Air Corps. Walking down a muddy street to his hotel, wearing a smart uniform cut in the style of Britain's RAF, he won admiring glances from young women in the marketplace. Colonel Robinson hardly noticed. His mind was on more serious thoughts. In the breast pocket of his uniform he carried two passports, one American, one Ethiopian. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to use the former again. An 1818 US law forbade American citizens to accept commissions in a foreign army at war against a nation in peace with the United States.

In a letter to his mother, he tried to explain his situation. “I'm now a colonel, Momma. I'm sometimes in the company of an emperor who appeals for peace before the League of Nations. Why don't they do something to stop this Mussolini fellow? Do you read much about it the paper at home? I'm making more money than I ever have. I will send most of it home to you. The air corps here is small, but I have been given its command. I wonder if anyone at home knows all this or even cares. I love you, Momma. Tell Daddy I love him too. Don't worry about me. I'll be alright.” He signed it “Johnny.”

What he did not tell his mother, but knew full well, was that Ethiopia was in harm's way. He didn't have to tell his mother that. Haile Selassie would give her proof enough.

On any given Sunday, the emperor attended church services carrying a rifle to dramatize the fact that although Ethiopia was praying for peace, she was preparing to fight if necessary. Nearly ten thousand miles away, a picture of the emperor at church with a rifle was carefully cut out of the
Daily Herald
newspaper and placed with John's letter in the small drawer of a bedside table. Celeste Cobb sat on the edge of her bed and closed the drawer. “Lord,” she prayed, “please look after my boy, Johnny.”

John bought the latest English language newspaper available. It was dated July 1935 and carried little news from the United States. It did say that one senator, a Democrat from Missouri named Clark, was calling for a full investigation of all lobbying on Capitol Hill. John wasn't sure what lobbying was, but it sounded like the senator thought it was a little crooked. A front-page headline blared, “Japan at war with China.”

The League of Nations is supposed to take care of things like that. Sounds like that War to End all Wars didn't do the job. War seems to be breaking out like chicken pox.

Two short articles on flying drew John's attention. The first stated that Wiley Post, a noted American aviator, was making final test flights for a new floatplane he and his friend Will Rogers planned to fly from Los Angeles to Moscow via Alaska. Another article was closer to home. A new aviation record had been set by two brothers over Meridian Mississippi. Al and Fred Key had set a world endurance flight in a modified Curtiss Robin monoplane using their own method of in-flight fueling. Their flight had lasted an incredible twenty-seven days, five hours, and twenty-four minutes.

That ain't bad for a couple of boys from Mississippi. Damn! If that in-flight fueling could be set up right, they could fly around the world without landing. Somebody's gonna do that one day.

Two political cartoons appeared on the opinion page. One showed Mussolini juggling arms and treaties while a bystander told Hitler and Stalin, “It might pay for you boys to watch this guy a little longer.” The second cartoon depicted Hitler giving Mussolini a medal for breaking up world peace machinery and the ring of nations surrounding Germany.