The Man Called Brown Condor

by Thomas E. Simmons

  He returned to say that he had the gas supplier on the line and he wanted to know how much fuel was needed.

  John knew the fairway offered only minimum takeoff distance. On the other side of a fence at the far end there was a row of sharecroppers’ cabins and beyond them a cotton field. John decided he didn’t need any extra weight in getting the biplane out of the short field. They would refuel only the little Buhl Pup. The OX5 had enough fuel to reach Birmingham.

  “Tell him we need ten gallons.”

  The man disappeared into the clubhouse only to return again.

  “The fuel man says he can’t afford to drive all the way out here from town for less than the price of twenty-five gallons plus two dollars each way to make the trip. What do you want me to tell him?”

  It was 1934, the depth of the Depression. Money was not wasted by anyone, certainly not by a struggling black flying partnership. Still, John had little choice.

  “Tell him okay.”

  The fuel truck arrived some forty-five minutes later but wasn’t allowed to drive onto the fairway. John had to pay cash for twenty-five gallons at ten cents per gallon plus four dollars for “hauling the truck clear out here”—a total of six dollars and fifty cents—before they could have any fuel. They had to carry fuel from the truck using a five-gallon bucket and and a funnel to fill Nash’s plane. When they had finished filling the Buhl Pup, it took a little over nine and one-half gallons, the fuel deliveryman asked what he was to do with the remaining fifteen and one-half gallons they had paid for.

  John thought a moment. “Let’s go ahead and put it in the OX5.”

  Coffey spoke up. “John, that will add almost a hundred pounds to our takeoff weight. Let’s think about that a minute. That field looks mighty short to me and we got to clear those cabins.”

  It would be tight, but John was confident he could clear the fence and cabins with room to spare. “We’ll make it,” John said. “We’ll push it as far back as we can to use every bit of the fairway.”

  Coffey usually went along with John’s decisions, but on this occasion, he disagreed. “We don’t need to be adding a hundred pounds on this short field.”

  “Well.” John said, “You can stay here and take a bus to Tuskegee. That will more than make up for the extra fuel weight.”

  “Like hell, I will.” Coffey replied. “But this is how we’ll do it.” He walked off the fairway into the rough, found a suitable stick, came back to the plane and paced off down the field to a point where he figured a takeoff run could be aborted and still have enough room to stop before they reached the fence. He tied his handkerchief to the stick and stuck it in the ground at the side of the fairway. Satisfied, Coffee walked back to where Robinson was finishing a pre-flight check of the biplane. This included oiling and greasing the valve rocker arms and springs by hand since the OX5 engine had no other means of lubricating these parts. This hand oiling and greasing had to be done prior to every flight. They paid four caddies fifteen cents apiece to help turn the biplane around and push it back to the base of the fairway tee. They did the same for the Buhl Pup. A small crowd of club members and caddies gathered to watch the intrepid airman. One was heard to say, “I ain’t never seen no airplane crash before.”

  Grover Nash got in the Buhl. John propped his engine. Nash gave the Pup full throttle. It rapidly gained speed down the smooth fairway. Robinson and Coffey watched as the small plane lifted off. It cleared the fence and cabins with no problem. Nash put the Pup in a climbing turn to circle above until John and Coffey could takeoff and join up with him.

  John got in the rear cockpit. Coffey said, “Remember, if we aren’t off by the time we reach my marker yonder, you cut the throttle and stop this thing.” He walked around front and propped off the engine, climbed into the front cockpit, fastened his seat belt, and signaled with a thumb up that he was ready.

  John gave it full throttle. Coffey leaned his head out the left side of the front cockpit to look for the marker he had placed down the fairway. The plane quickly gained enough speed for John to lift the tail. Now he could see ahead and concentrated on keeping the roll straight. The plane was accelerating nicely on the smooth turf. The controls came alive in John’s hand. No sweat, he thought. She’s going to fly us out of here with room to spare. John began to ease back on the stick. The plane was on the verge of lifting into the air.

  Just at that moment, Coffey saw his marker fly past. He reached for the throttle and closed it just after the plane lifted into the air.

  Startled, John immediately rammed the throttle all the way forward, wondering how in the hell the thing had slipped back to idle. The plane momentarily lost altitude, bounced on the turf, and struggled into the air again as full power was restored. They crossed the fence at the end of the fairway. Directly in front was one of the sharecropper cabins with its little brick chimney sticking about three feet higher than the roof.

  John was careful to maintain best angle of climb airspeed. He was sure the wheels had cleared the roof of the cabin when there was a sharp bump. Immediately, John could feel a terrific vibration through the control stick. Cornelius, whose vision was blocked by the lower wing, thought the main gear must have struck the cabin. He turned around to see John’s reaction. That’s when he stared past John at the tail empennage. It was missing most of the right horizontal stabilizer and elevator, torn off when they struck the brick chimney. He motioned wildly at John, pointing toward the tail.

  John snapped his head around and saw what Cornelius was pointing at. He very gently eased back on the stick, testing to see if the plane would respond to what was left of the elevator. It did so, but very sluggishly. This time it was John who closed the throttle, anxious to get the plane down before they lost what was left of the tail. He hoped there was enough of it left to flare the plane for a landing. The biplane began to settle toward earth. From the back cockpit, when a pilot eases the stick back to flare for landing, he can see very little of what lies directly ahead. John was not too concerned since they would be landing parallel to the cotton rows. The plane, shaking from nose to tail, was about twenty feet off the ground when the very top branches of a tree climbed into Coffey’s view from the front cockpit. Startled, he shoved the throttle forward and grabbed the control stick in an effort to bank the plane to avoid the tree. By this time, John could see the top of the tree and was already taking evasive action.

  They almost made it. Only a few feet off the dry, sun-baked cotton field, the right upper wingtip brushed tree branches. There was a sickening crack as the wingtip and aileron were torn off.

  Nash, circling above waiting for the two pilots to take off and join him, watched in horror as the biplane spun around and crashed tail first onto the field. A huge grey explosion grew into a cloud obscuring the plane and its crew from his view. Flying above the frightening scene, Nash thought the plane had exploded and surely killed his two friends. A few minutes later, he was astonished to see both Robinson and Coffey walk out of the grey cloud and wave up at him.

  As he continued to circle, Nash realized there had not been an explosion. The frightening cloud had been an enormous swirl of dust thrown up by the plane whirling onto the dust-choked cotton field. As the dust drifted off downwind, Nash was sure he had witnessed a miracle. His two friends had walked away from all that was left of Janet Bragg’s 1928 OX5 biplane: a fuselage bereft of the better parts of its wings and tail. At least there had been no fire.

  As he continued to circle above, Nash could see his two friends engaged in a lot of gesturing, stomping, and walking around one another. John took his flying helmet off, threw it on the ground, and kicked it toward Coffey. Gordon Nash decided he better land. A storm was raging below.

  Robinson and Coffey were furious with one another.

  “It’s your fault, Coffey, for chopping the power on takeoff.”

  “Well it’s your fault, Robinson, for cutting the power for the emergency landing without clearing the area in front of us. You should have ‘S�
� turned to see what was ahead.”

  “I didn’t dare do that. What was left of the elevator may have torn away. I didn’t know how much longer the control cable would hold. If either had failed, we would’ve nosed down and gone straight in. Who the hell would leave a tree in the middle of a cotton field anyway? You ever seen a cotton field with a tree in the middle of it? Damnit! If you hadn’t put that stupid flag out there and cut the power as we lifted off, we would have made it with altitude to spare.”

  “Well, we didn’t make it, did we?”

  By the time Nash once again landed on Fairway Six, a crowd of golfers and their caddies had climbed over the fence to see the crash.

  With a crowd gathered, Robinson and Coffey calmed down and decided not to kill each other. They had both made mistakes, but by some miracle they were alive and unhurt. That was enough, they decided, until a new, more pressing argument arose between them. As Nash walked up the two were going at it again.

  “You call her! You’re the one who sweet-talked her into loaning us the plane. Maybe you can sweet-talk her into not killing us.”

  “Not me, Coffey. You call her. You’re the one who pulled the throttle on takeoff and caused us to hit the chimney.”

  “I ain’t gonna.”

  “The hell you ain’t.”

  Just who was to call Janet to inform her that her airplane was scattered all over a cotton field in Alabama was a serious matter, not to mention the cost of buying her another airplane.

  It was Gordon Nash that negotiated a truce. He reminded them of the purpose of the trip. The most important thing was for John to continue the trip in pursuit of their goal: establishing a school of aviation at Tuskegee. To prevent bloodshed, Nash took on the fearful task of informing Janet Waterford of what had happened to her pride and joy. “She can’t yell at me too much. I didn’t have anything to do with borrowing her plane.” He was wrong, of course. She was not amused. She entered into what is referred to in the South as a genuine hissy fit.

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s gonna kill all three of us just as soon as we get back to Chicago.”

  The trio calmed down enough to agree that John would continue on to the reunion celebration at Tuskegee in Nash’s Buhl Pup. That was the moment another problem, in the form of an irate cotton farmer, showed up. He was not amused either. He insisted that his crop had been damaged to the tune of one hundred and twenty-five dollars, including the cleanup of “all them pieces of airplane scattered out yonder.” He further indicated that if they didn’t like the price, or couldn’t pay, they could take up the matter with the sheriff.

  Coffey had been raised in Arkansas, Robinson in Mississippi. They definitely did not want to settle things with a white Alabama sheriff.

  “All right. John, you go on right now. Get in the Buhl and fly out of here,” Coffey said.

  “We don’t have a hundred and twenty-five dollars between the three of us,” Robinson replied.

  “I’ll call some of the Air Challenger members. They’ll get up the money and wire it to us at Western Union. In the meantime, Nash and I will salvage the engine and whatever else we can from the wreck. Now you go on to Tuskegee.”

  It was a beautiful afternoon when the sound of an aircraft circling in the blue sky overhead caused eyes to look skyward from the campus of Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute. John had called from Birmingham to ask Captain A. J. Neeley, the registrar of the college, for permission to land on one of the Institute’s farm fields adjacent to the campus. Now, as he made several low passes over the campus, students and faculty poured out of the buildings and rushed to the field to witness the very first visit to Tuskegee by an aircraft, and not just any aircraft, but one flown by a graduate of the institution. John brought the plane down smoothly to settle on the pasture and taxi over to the gathered crowd. When the flight-helmeted and parachute-attired Robinson climbed from the open cockpit, he was somewhat embarrassed by the cheers that rang from the crowd. The welcome given was that for a returning hero: He was Tuskegee’s own intrepid aviator.

  Robinson enjoyed the festivities but wasted no time in discussing the possibilities a school of aviation with Tuskegee’s president, Dr. Robert R. Moton, and his visitor, Dr. Frederic D. Patterson. John told them about the first all-Negro airfield he had helped establish at Robbins, Illinois, and the flying and aviation mechanics school he had established with his partner Cornelius Coffey, and the organization of the Challenger Air Pilots Association. He pointed out the prestige such a school would give to the Institute, and how it could be the first college to exclusively and formally open the field of aviation to black youth. He went on to lay out the details of how all of it could be accomplished and what they would need: a classroom, a grass landing strip, a plane, a hangar, an instructor, a mechanic’s shop, and tools. His arguments in support of establishing a school of aviation at Tuskegee were enthusiastically received.

  Before he left to return to Chicago, Dr. Moton assured Robinson that Tuskegee would establish a department of aviation as soon as necessary funds could be obtained, hopefully within the next two to three years. They also stated that they would engage him to head the department. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, he found the sky brighter and the earth greener as he flew northward toward Chicago. With an occasional roll or loop, he danced with the clouds. It was his sky that day.

  Upon his return to Chicago, he sent the news to his parents and his sister. He informed Coffey and Curtiss-Wright of Tuskegee’s plans. News got around and the local press began to seek him out for interviews. All seemed right with his part of the world. Unfortunately, it was not with the rest of the world.

  Chapter 10

  A World Away

  PILOTS WILL AGREE THAT AN AIRCRAFT WILL ALMOST ALWAYS GIVE indications of oncoming problems—increased oil consumption, low compression, subtle noises, vibrations—in time to allow the prudent pilot to avoid catastrophe. Unlike well-trained aviators, those in high places who pilot nations almost always seem unable or unwilling to recognize signs of serious trouble and take corrective action in time to prevent disaster.

  Far from the shores of America, dogs of war were howling to be let loose. The scent of blood was in their nostrils. Their master in Rome would soon unleash them to tear apart the flesh of an ancient Christian people on the high plateaus of Ethiopia.

  What better place to begin Mussolini’s conquest for a new Roman empire than an African nation assumed to contain rich farmland and great, unexploited natural resources? It was true that Ethiopia was the only African nation that had never been conquered by colonial powers or its Muslim neighbors. Italy knew that firsthand. In 1896 Ethiopia, then called Abyssinia, had given the Italians an embarrassing defeat at Adowa, but that was well over a quarter century ago. Italy now had modern industries that turned out tanks, guns, and aircraft. Ethiopia had no such capacity. Il Duce bragged that he would avenge the defeat of 1896 and bring glorious new empire to Italy. The new colony of Italian Ethiopia would, he said, provide land for the crowded Italian citizenry and greatly benefit Italy’s faltering economy.

  Few in the world paid attention. That would prove to be a very bad mistake. Mussolini, you see, a former corporal during the Great War, invented Fascism in 1922. That most in the Western world chose to ignore Mussolini and his new form of government would prove terribly costly in terms of human life, not to mention treasure. The one man who did pay close attention, who took notice not only of Mussolini’s Fascist form of government but of the way he had used his Black Shirt thugs to gain power, had also been a corporal in the Great War, a German corporal. This ex-corporal’s name was Adolf Hitler. American newspapers did carry a little news about Mussolini and “incidents” along the border between Italian Somaliland and Ethiopia, but such reports were mostly on the back pages.

  Haile Selassie appealed, as leader of a member nation, to the League of Nations, asking for them to send neutral observers to the area to arbitrate any border disputes or incidents. The Leagu
e refused. France and England saw no reason to antagonize Fascist Italy bulging with Mussolini’s arms, or, for that matter, Mussolini’s good friend Adolf Hitler and his Fascist thugs in Germany who had come to power in 1933. After all, what interest did England and France have in an obscure African country?

  Encouraged, Mussolini sent large numbers of troops and arms to Africa, stating in the world press that Italy had “a civilizing mission” in “backward Ethiopia.” He declared that he would avenge the atrocity committed by Ethiopia in 1896 against Italy at Adowa, never mind that Adowa, an Ethiopian town, had first been attacked by Italy.

  In his appearance before the League of Nations in Geneva, Switzerland, Haile Selassie made an impassioned plea before its assembly. He asked for peace, saying he had withdrawn his troops from the disputed borders to prevent any further incidents. England, though sympathetic, refused to pledge support to Ethiopia in the event of war. France’s response was cold. The Italian delegation arrogantly walked out of the assembly during Selassie’s speech. The League of Nations did nothing.

  The United States had refused to join the League of Nations following the end of the Great War. America was in the grip of the Depression and officially wanted nothing to do with another conflict abroad, although many Americans, especially black American citizens, formed societies to send aid to Ethiopia.

  John Robinson was aware of Haile Selassie’s struggle. Like many in the world, he viewed Selassie with admiration, but on the American side of the Atlantic, John’s life seemed very much in order. His attention was focused upon the challenge he would eventually face heading up a new department of aviation at Tuskegee. Not only did he believe the school was needed, but he also knew that for the students to be accepted as pilots and aircraft mechanics, there needed to be an opportunity to prove beyond doubt that black students of aviation could excel in the field.

  There had been a few news stories about another black pilot, but in John’s opinion, the stories were not the kind that were needed. The subject was Hubert Julian who, in the mid-1920s had billed himself as the first black parachutist and first black licensed pilot, not in the United States but in Canada. Julian claimed to have been born in Trinidad, and he said he had learned to fly in Canada and was licensed there. John considered him more of a self-promoter of moneymaking scams than a serious aviator. Julian parachuted into Harlem as a publicity stunt. He promoted himself as the Black Eagle and collected funds, mostly from black citizens, for a proposed solo flight in a single-engine floatplane to Ethiopia. He had concocted similar scams before, taking the money and then finding an excuse not to carry out the project. For the Ethiopia flight, when few backers appeared, Julian appealed to the public through advertising and direct mail. Because of his previous actions, both the FBI and the United States Postal Service (USPS) had taken an interest in him. He was informed by an agent from the US government that he had better make the flight because there was a law against collecting funds through the mail with intent to defraud.