The Man Called Brown Condor (31 page)

He relaxed, surrounded by the throaty rhythmic sounds of the Lycoming radial engine and the sweet smell of the new leather interior of his aircraft's cabin.

Having landed many times in Addis Ababa with near empty fuel tanks, John was determined not to ever worry about running short of fuel again. His first stop was Cairo where the states of Illinois, Kentucky, and Missouri meet at the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. After supervising the fueling of his plane, a habit learned in Ethiopia, he bought a root beer and a package of Ritz crackers for a nickel each. It was a classic pilot's lunch.

From Cairo, John followed the mighty Mississippi. The cornfields gave way to cotton fields as he followed “Big Muddy” southward toward Memphis. The paved highways of Illinois gave way to Tennessee's highways whose paved sections were broken by long stretches of gravel roads. Over Memphis, he turned southeastward toward Birmingham for fuel. From there he would fly on to Tuskegee where he was expected to make a talk and spend the night.

After he landed at Roberts Field in Birmingham, he couldn't help but notice the looks on the faces of a small group of men who came out of the line shack when he taxied up to the lone fuel pump. He knew well what had caused their surprised expressions. It wasn't the plane, though the group had seen the new Stinson land and come out to have a closer look. No, the real surprise came when John opened the cabin door and climbed down. He overheard one of the group say, “I'll be damned. I ain't never see a nigger flyer before.” Another man wearing a worn leather flying jacket stepped forward. “That's a fine looking plane. Do you mind if I have a closer look at it?”

John asked, “Can I get the tanks topped?”

The man in the jacket turned and hollered, “Henry, top her off!”

A young black man, barefooted and wearing oil-stained coveralls stepped forward. “Yes sir, Mr. Hayes,” and moved over to the pump marked Phillips 66. He pulled enough hose off the reel to stretch out to the plane and then got a stepladder so he could reach the wing tanks.

Hayes turned to John. “Your name happen to be Robinson?”

“That's right.”

“You the one was in Ethiopia in that Italian war?”

“I was there.”

“I've read about you.” The man offered his hand to John, a gesture not common in the South at the time: a white offering to shake a black hand. “I'm Hayes. This is my flight operation. Could you use a cup of coffee?”

“That would be mighty fine,” John replied. He looked back at the plane. Henry had a ladder and was climbing up to the wing with the fuel hose over his shoulder, careful of the finish on the wing. Satisfied that the line boy knew what he was doing, John followed Hayes past the onlookers toward the small frame building twenty yards behind the pump.

A cup of coffee later, John paid his bill and walked out to the plane where onlookers were still gathered. “It's a beautiful ship you got there,” one of them said.

“Thank you. It's a good flying plane.” He answered a few other questions about the Stinson while he climbed up to check the fuel caps. They were secure. The line boy removed the ladder and John climbed into the cockpit. He called out “Clear!” Hayes nodded. John cranked the engine and taxied out.

The group stood outside to watch the blue Stinson lift off and turn to the southeast, and then they filed into the line shack. “Well, that was something,” one of them said. Another walked over to the coffeepot. Two cups from the rack of mugs sat on the desk with a little coffee left in them. “Dammit, Hayes, did you let that nigger drink out of my cup?”

Hayes looked at him. “No. I knew you would whine. I used your cup. He drank out of mine. I'll tell you something else since you brought it up. That ‘nigger,' as you put it, was Haile Selassie's personal pilot. He's just been through a war in Africa and from what I've read in the news and heard on the radio, I'd lay money he could fly rings around your dumb ass.”

The rest of the group thought that was funny.

Hayes walked out of the office and saw the young black line boy still looking toward the sky where John's plane was just a tiny speck. “Henry,” called Hayes, “you been doing a good job around here. I guess maybe you've earned yourself a plane ride. You want one?”

The young man broke into a wide grin. “Yes, sir! Mr. Hayes, I been wantin' one since the first day I come out here.”

“Well, go climb up in front of that WACO. We'll take her around the field a couple of times.”

Henry ran out to the biplane. “I told my daddy I'd get a ride, but he didn't believe it.”

“If you can find your house from up there, we'll fly over it and you can wave at him. He ought to be home from work by now.” Hayes stood on the lower wing and helped fasten the safety harness of a very happy, young black man.

In the late afternoon sunlight, John's graceful Stinson circled the campus at Tuskegee and then settled gently on a freshly mowed field nearby. Shortly after the plane came to rest near the fence, several automobiles pulled to a stop beside the Stinson where John was standing. From the first car, two men got out and walked over to him. The first was John's old friend, Captain A. J. Neely, the college registrar. Close behind him was Dr. F. D. Patterson, president of Tuskegee.

Patterson offered his hand. “Welcome home, Colonel Robinson. We are very proud to have you with us again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We plan to have supper at my home. After supper the teachers and staff would love to meet you. Tomorrow we thought you could address the students at the summer session. Then the folks at Meridian and Jackson want us to call and let them know when you will be there. You can see we have a lot planned for you, Colonel. I hope you don't mind too much.”

John smiled. “I've kinda gotten used to it. But I tell you what. Supper sounds fine. All I had for lunch was a root beer and peanut butter crackers.”

“Well, John, we didn't plan anything fancy. We thought you might want a little southern cooking. How does fried chicken, field peas, candied yams, and apple pie with ice cream sound?”

“President Patterson, those Italians must have killed me after all, 'cause it sounds like I've died and gone to heaven. Now if you tell me I can have hot biscuits and buttered grits with breakfast in the morning, I'll know it's true.”

They laughed and started for the car.

The
Tuskegee Messenger
in town reported at great length about the visit of “one of the boys enrolled at Tuskegee in the early twenties” who now returned a celebrity. Recounting John's appearance before the student body, the newspaper stated, “In presenting Colonel Robinson, President Patterson referred with pride to the fine record of this Tuskegee graduate in blazing the trail for Negro youth in the field of aviation and proving to the world beyond doubt the Negro's capacity for accuracy, endurance, skill, and courage.” The article ended by saying, “A course of instruction in aeronautics is being planned by the Department of Mechanical Industries at Tuskegee and Mr. Robinson is scheduled to return as instructor of the course.”

John knew things were not going to be quite that simple. He held long discussions with school officials during which he explained the requirements of setting up a school of aeronautics. He realized such a program was still a long way off. The school simply did not have the finances available. What did happen as a result of the meeting was a firm commitment by Tuskegee to continue to work toward the establishment of such a school.

After his address to the students, John was short of time and went directly to the plane. He had two stops to make before flying home to Gulfport. He was expected to make talks at Meridian and Jackson Mississippi. He checked the plane, thanked Patterson and Neeley, cranked up the engine, waved to the students lining the fence, and took off. Flying almost due west he passed Montgomery and followed the Alabama River until it turned south at Selma. He was happy. It was a pilot's day: sunshine, clean air, and a sky decorated with white fluffs of fair-weather clouds.

By the time he passed Demopolis where the Black Warrior and Tombigbee rivers join to flow southward to Mobile Bay, John knew he'd had one coffee too many at breakfast. He had been in such a hurry to leave he skipped the usual trip to the restroom before the flight. Now he was sorry as the urgency of nature got his attention. To solve the problem, he needed to make an unscheduled stop. Some miles west of Demopolis he spotted what appeared to be a clear, freshly mown field near a gravel highway. The field was just behind what looked like a country store. He made a low pass over the area. The field was clear and level, no electric or phone wires. No sweat. He banked around, lined up on the field, and put the Stinson down gently. Halfway through the landing roll, he felt a bump followed by a strong pull toward the right. He was rolling too slow for the rudder to be effective so he applied hard left brake to keep the plane from ground looping.

Once stopped, he cut the engine and climbed down, already knowing what he would find. He squatted down beside the right wheel. “Damn. Flat as hell.” What was worse, the sidewall was badly cut, there would be no fixing the tire and tube.

John stood up and looked around. No traffic on the road and no human as far as he could see. He relieved himself—which had been the reason for landing. When finished, he walked down the track the right wheel had made through the short grass. It didn't take long to find the cause of his cut tire. Lying a foot to the side of the track was the dirt-encrusted, jagged top half of a broken gallon jug.
Hell of a place to throw an empty jug.
He reckoned the mowing tractor had broken it. John took off his uniform blouse (he had worn his uniform for his appearance at Meridian), slung it over the pilot's seat in the plane, walked across the field to the fence, climbed over it, and started down the road toward the store.

Most of the barn-red paint had weathered off the pine board siding of the building. A wide porch ran across the width of the storefront covered by a tin hip roof that extended out over a single gasoline pump. Across the facade above the hip roof were the words, painted in faded, foot-high letters, “Feed, Groceries, Hardware, Dry Goods.” Several signs were nailed to the wall under the hip roof. The largest read “Coca-Cola 5¢.” A poster in the window had a border made up of pictures of airplanes. In the center it advertised Wings Cigarettes. There was a handmade sign on a piece of cardboard that read “For sale, 22 Model-T, Runs, $25.”

John walked up the well-worn, wooden steps and opened the screen door. Inside, three naked light bulbs hanging by their cords from the ceiling were spaced evenly down the center of the room. There were no windows in the side of the building, just long shelves of merchandise. A large attic fan, installed through a hole cut in the ceiling, labored noisily. An elderly man dressed in khaki pants and shirt and a white bib apron was sitting on a stool behind the counter working on a ledger. He looked up and eyed John walking through the screen door.

“I didn't hear you drive up. What you want?”

“I don't have a car. I need to use a telephone. Do you have one?”

“Yep. We got one.” he motioned at a wooden telephone box hanging on the wall behind him. “I ain't seen you 'round here before. You say you walked clear out here?”

“Well, I didn't walk here, exactly. I flew.”

The man looked up at John. “You trying to fool with me, boy?”

“My plane is in the field just back of here.”

“The hell you say! You mean to tell me you landed an airplane right out there behind my store?”

“You can see it from the edge of the front porch,” John said. “Come on and I'll show you.”

The man came out from behind the counter and followed John outside. “Well I'll be damned. You flew that thing here by yourself? How far you come?”

“Started in Chicago. Landed here to take a rest on my way to Meridian. I cut a tire. I need to call the Meridian airport to see if they can get me a new one.”

“Chicago! Well I reckon it'll be alright to make your call,” the man said, walking back in the store, “but the operator will have to tell me what it's gonna cost. I'll have to charge you.” He walked behind the counter to the phone box fixed to the wall, picked up the receiver, and listened a moment then spoke into the mouthpiece protruding from the phone box. “Say, Mrs. Hinton, this is Duley Perkins, that's right, at the store. I wonder if ya'll would mind lettin' me have this line for an important call, long distance. That's right, long distance. I got a fellow here who landed an airplane. He's a colored fellow, too. That's right, a colored fellow. Well, you might never heard of such, but he done it. Yes, ma'am. I sure will.” He paused, turned to John. “We got a five party line on this thing.” He turned the crank on the side of the phone box. “Operator? That you Pearl? This is Duley. Yeah, at the store. Listen, I got a fellow here wants to call Meridian. When he gets through stay on the line to tell me how much to charge for the call. That's right. Here I'll let you talk to him.” He turned to John. “Here you are. Come around the counter here. Just tell her who you want.”

“Hello, ma'am, I'd like to speak to someone at the flying service in Meridian. Yes, ma'am at the airport.”

A short while later a distant sounding voice came on the line. “Key Brothers Flying Service.”

“This is John Robinson, I'm over here just west of Demopolis.”

“I'm Al Key. Can you speak a little louder? You say you're west of Demopolis?”

“Yes, sir. I blew a tire on a Stinson and I wonder if someone over there can get me some help. I'll need a new tire and tube and tools to change it out.”

“You the Robinson that flew in Ethiopia? Supposed to make some kind of speech here today.”

“Yes, sir, I am. Are you one of the Key brothers that set the world endurance record?”