The Man Called Brown Condor

by Thomas E. Simmons

  With much fanfare and publicity, Julian took off from the Harlem River on his great African flight. The flight ended five minutes after takeoff in a crash in Flushing Bay. Julian must have miscalculated his “forced river landing,” for he wound up in hospital where he was visited by a USPS inspector. Considering the seriousness of his injuries, the inspector decided the attempt might meet the criteria for collecting money via the mail and decided not to put Julian in jail.

  John Robinson despised Julian for pulling such stunts. He knew Julian set the sort of examples that would hold back black aviation, make it a laughing stock. Nonetheless, by 1929 news of the attempt had somehow reached the then regent of Ethiopia, Ras Tafari, soon to be coronated emperor. He was interested in the idea of black pilots. At the time, Ethiopia had just three large transport planes, two German-made single-engine Junkers W33c monoplanes, a Fokker VII3/b tri-motor, several single-engine types including a handful of French Potez biplanes, and a few other single-engine planes such as a Farman F-192, a Breda BA 15, and Breguet XIX. Most of Ethiopia’s pilots were white Frenchmen. Ras Tafari wanted to prove to his people that black men could indeed learn to fly, an idea that was not encouraged by his French pilots.

  Julian, the self-proclaimed Black Eagle, happily accepted an invitation to travel to Ethiopia to demonstrate his flying ability. He was promised all expenses and a salary of a thousand dollars a month, a huge amount at the time. Upon his arrival he was given rank, a uniform, living quarters, and much attention. He did demonstrate, to the emperor’s pleasure, and to the consternation of the French pilots, that a black man could fly. But then Julian overdid things a bit.

  Selfridges department store in London, which received the majority of Ethiopia’s royal mail-order trade, presented, as a gift to the emperor-to-be, a new, white, sporty little two-place de Havilland Gypsy Moth biplane. It became a much-prized possession, even more so than his royal automobile, a Rolls Royce touring car painted deep maroon. Ras Tafari had a hangar built to shelter the little plane and keep it from public view. He gave orders that no one was to fly his Gypsy Moth until his coronation as emperor, at which time it would be unveiled and flown with himself as passenger before the coronation crowd.

  Part of the celebration was held at the racetrack, which at the time doubled as a landing field. Julian gave a special public aerial demonstration for Ras Tafari featuring aerobatics in an old Potez 15 biplane and a parachute jump. Tafari was very pleased by the show. He awarded a medal to Julian, gave him a raise in pay, granted him the rank of colonel, and offered him Ethiopian citizenship. Julian, immensely pleased with himself, thanked the emperor-to-be and walked away from the viewing stand. Shortly afterward, a member of the royal staff, somewhat astonished, directed the regent’s attention toward the landing field. Tafari, to his surprise and shock, saw his white de Havilland biplane accelerating across the grass to lift into the air just in front of the royal tent. Julian had been asking to fly the little plane since he first laid eyes on it. Now, full of the accolades he’d received from Tafari, the cheers from the crowd echoing in his ears, Julian had taken it upon himself to try out the plane, even though he was perfectly aware that it was not to fly until the coronation. Perhaps he thought Tafari would be pleased to see what his Gypsy Moth was capable of doing in the air.

  The future emperor was not in the least pleased. No one had ever disobeyed his direct orders. What’s more, the unveiling of the little plane and his courageous flight was to be the highlight of his coronation celebration. Now that surprise for his subjects was ruined.

  Things got even worse. Julian, who had never flown a Gypsy Moth, came over the field and performed several steep turns at low altitude. With Tafari looking on in anger, Julian attempted a maneuver that ended in the branches of a eucalyptus tree, destroying the regent’s favorite mechanical possession before he had a chance to fly in it.

  On the emperor’s direct order, Hubert Fauntleroy Julian was immediately banished. He was put on the next train to Djibouti. Some said he was lucky not to have been fed to the pair of royal lions, which were always kept chained to either side of the entrance to the royal palace.

  Arriving by ship back in the United States, Julian found himself once again ridiculed for his antics. The news media carried stories reminding the public of Julian’s failed attempt to fly to Africa and with gleeful sarcasm announced, “American Negro Pilot Lands in Eucalyptus Tree.”

  John Robinson was convinced that Julian was undoing everything that he, Coffey, his classes at Curtiss-Wright, and the Air Challenger Pilots Association were doing to promote black aviation.

  All that happened in 1930, the year Ras Tafari became Emperor Haile Selassie. In 1934 Robinson continued working with Coffey at their flying school while Tuskegee sought funding for a school of aviation. John’s quiet manner and his demonstrated abilities and steady progress in the field of aviation stirred the interest of the local press. He found himself giving interviews and receiving invitations to speak before leaders of business and education.

  It was at one such meeting sponsored by the Associated Negro Press (ANP) that John stated that he knew firsthand that airlines refused to hire black pilots qualified with commercial and transport ratings. He voiced, for the first time publicly, that what might most suitably support black Americans entering the field of aviation would be the opportunity to prove, beyond doubt, a black aviator’s professional ability. He said that such an opportunity had so far been unavailable, but that he would gladly accept such a challenge.

  Claude Barnett, founder of the ANP, was present. As fate would have it, Barnett had a rather special friend, Dr. Halaku Bayen, nephew of Emperor Haile Selassie. Halaku was in the United States at the time. Following Robinson’s speech, Barnett traveled to Washington, DC, for a conference with the Ethiopian prince to tell him about John Robinson’s talk. Consequently, Bayen traveled to Chicago to meet with Robinson.

  At the meeting, Bayen said that perhaps he could provide what Robinson stated he desired: “an opportunity to prove beyond doubt black aviators’ professional ability.” Bayen told John that his country, Ethiopia, in spite of the emperor’s appeal to the League of Nations, was facing an invasion by Fascist Italy and that Ethiopia desperately needed pilots. He asked, “Mr. Robinson, would you consider serving in the Imperial Ethiopian Air Corps?” Robinson accepted without reservation, saying it would be a chance to prove that black American pilots were fit for any challenge in aviation.

  Bayen had not made the offer without first confirming Robinson’s professional flying qualifications. He then had to determine if Robinson was sincere in his offer to serve in Ethiopia. Satisfied, Bayen forwarded a report of his findings to Addis Ababa.

  In spite of Ethiopia’s urgent need for skilled technical personnel, the emperor, remembering the embarrassment and loss of his prized de Havilland Gypsy Moth caused by Julian, received the report about another black American pilot with serious reservations. But he and his staff made a careful review of Robinson’s aviation records and references and found them impeccable. John received a cable from Selassie inviting him to Ethiopia, offering a generous salary and all transportation and living expenses. It was not an invitation to be taken lightly. John’s parents, sister, and many friends pleaded with him not to go. They did not match his conviction that going halfway round the world to risk his life in an African country headed for war would advance the opportunities for black Americans. They argued that he could do more by teaching aviation at Tuskegee. John reminded them Tuskegee still did not have the funds to establish a school of aviation, that the endeavor may take years.

  In the end, John Robinson chose to accept the offer. He would go, he said, because it provided the best opportunity to prove by example that black pilots were capable of performing professionally. It was a heavy burden, one he was determined to carry.

  John turned the aviation school over to Coffey, tidied up his affairs, packed, and said goodbye to his family and friends.

  Chapter 11


  Lonely Voyage

  DR. BAYEN MADE ALL THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR ROBINSON’S TRIP, helping him secure a passport and visa. The passport had presented a challenge. Robinson certainly could not say the reason for the trip was to become a member of the Imperial Ethiopian Air Force. It was and is against US law for an American citizen to serve in the armed forces of another country, particularly one at war, which worried Robinson. He did not want to lose his citizenship. On his application, John had to fib a little. He stated the reason for his travel to Ethiopia was business. He claimed he was going abroad to sell unarmed, civilian aircraft to the Ethiopian government, aircraft manufactured by a new, small company named Beechcraft (which would turn out not to be a complete lie).

  As for war, John still hoped that the League of Nations would somehow prevent it. After all, wasn’t that the main purpose for which it had been established after the Great War—the war to end all wars?

  The United States, which had refused to join the League of Nations, decided to remain neutral and follow the initiative of the League to put an embargo on the sale of military arms to either Italy or Ethiopia. This diplomatic gesture of neutrality by the League of Nations and the United States hurt only Ethiopia; Italy had the ability to manufacture all the guns, bombs, ammunition, artillery, planes, and tanks it needed, whereas Ethiopia had no means whatsoever to manufacture modern weapons.

  Bayen met John in New York and assured him that all the tasks that needed to be accomplished before he could go had been completed, right down to the delivery of his steamer trunk to his cabin. Bayen provided Robinson with a first-class ticket for the Atlantic crossing and beyond, checked his papers a final time, handed him an envelope containing cash for expenses, and accompanied him to Pier 57 in New York, used by both Grace Lines and French Lines. The French liner’s officer receiving passengers aboard seemed a little taken aback; he checked John’s papers twice to be sure the black man was indeed booked first class on the luxury liner outward bound for Marseille via the Strait of Gibraltar.

  On that late afternoon in May 1935, passengers lining the rail of the French ship watched the skyline of New York slowly descend toward the western horizon. Among them, standing alone, was a slim, brown-skinned young man.

  The chilled evening breeze smelled of the sea, taking Robinson back to his childhood in Gulfport on the Mississippi shore of the Gulf of Mexico. He thought of his mother’s seafood gumbo, flying kites, and fishing with his father. How far away those days now seemed. When his mother learned her only son was headed halfway round the world to an African country threatened by war, she had cried and begged him not to go. He had asked himself a dozen times, was he choosing or being chosen? Had he deliberately set a course, or was he being swept along by Fate’s troubled times and tides?

  The glow from the bright lights of New York followed the sun beyond the horizon, leaving the ship in darkness to slice its way cleanly through the ocean. John left the liner’s rail and walked to his cabin.

  Dressed formally in black tie, John Robinson garnered curious glances as he followed a waiter across the lavishly decorated dining salon to his assigned table. Conversation paused as he was seated. He smiled and nodded to those at the table. A few nodded in return, but when conversation resumed, he was ignored. Nervous about proper dining etiquette, he carefully spread his napkin in his lap and followed the silverware selections and manners of his fellow diners as he ate his meal in silence. It was the first five-course dinner he had ever experienced. He spoke only once, excusing himself from the table.

  By lunch the next day, some at his table were more friendly, intrigued by rumors that originated, it was said, with the ship’s purser, and before him the equally curious black baggage handlers in New York. Who was the mysterious black passenger in first class? Word spread that he was a pilot and soldier of fortune. To his embarrassment, John became somewhat of a celebrity to many fellow passengers. There were also some aboard who made no secret of their disgust at booking expensive first-class passage only to find “a damn Chicago nigger” enjoying the same privileges. A group of German businessmen did not miss the opportunity to discuss the Nazi theory of a superior race when they were sure Robinson could not help but overhear.

  Most of the first-class passengers were American vacationers of old money, the class that is usually hurt least by monetary Depression, and which generally is the last to change lifestyles. Among them was a former pilot who had flown with the 94th Aero Squadron in the Great War. He approached John on the second afternoon of the crossing.

  “Robinson, I hear you’ve done a little flying. Is that true?”

  “That’s right. I’ve done a little.”

  “Heard you’re from Chicago, but you don’t sound like a native of the Windy City.”

  “I was raised on the Mississippi coast. You don’t sound like a Northerner yourself, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “No. I’m from the Carolina coast. Charleston. Is it true you are headed for Ethiopia and the mess that’s fixin’ to happen over there?”

  “I’ve accepted their invitation. I still hope the mess, as you put it, can be avoided.”

  “I made the same mistake in 1917. I suppose you’ve been told you’re crazy enough times already. Why don’t you and I go to the bar and talk about flying. I’m already damn tired of bridge, my children are driving me crazy, and my wife stays seasick in her cabin, or so she tells me. I haven’t done any flying for a while. I’m forty-one and am constantly reminded that I should be wiser at my age, but I miss it.”

  The two men spent much of the remainder of the cruise walking the decks or sharing a table at the bar while exchanging flying stories. To most passengers, especially Northern Americans, their apparent ease with one another seemed ironic, a white Southerner and a Negro. It was not strange to either man. In the segregated society in which they both grew up, such relationships were often black employee to white employer, the former subservient, the latter patronizing. Nonetheless, both John and the Carolinian were at ease with one another in a way peculiar to the South, a way John had not found prevalent in the Northern urban centers of Detroit and Chicago.

  The Carolinian said he had first been assigned to fly a slow, lumbering observation plane that seemed to be the prey of every German flyer.

  “I spent most of the war running like crazy. I learned to love the clouds. If you get in trouble in Ethiopia, clouds may be your best bet. If I found myself with Germans all around, I flew flat-out crazy, tried everything I knew, made up stuff, all the time running for the clouds if there were any. Once inside a cloud, I couldn’t tell up from down, but the pursuit ships were afraid to follow, afraid of a midair collision with me or each other. In clouds, they couldn’t tell up from down either. Even if they tried, they couldn’t find me. Hell, I couldn’t find me till I broke out the other side or spun out the bottom. Many a time I would deliberately go into a spin hoping I came out the bottom with enough altitude to pull out. I stayed alive and got my observer and the information through all but once. I crash-landed just behind my own lines, but my observer was already dead, shot right through the heart. I finally got my wish, got assigned to a pursuit squadron. I thought that would be great after flying a slow observation craft, but hell, I had more close calls than before. It really wasn’t much fun, John, the war I mean, but I miss the flying.”

  Robinson took the Great War flyer’s knowledge and instruction in aerial combat seriously. He filled a journal with notes and sketches of maneuvers the slow-talking Carolinian patiently explained to him. John had taken instruction in basic aerobatics, loops, rolls, Cuban-eights and the like, but he had never thought of them in terms of evasive or aggressive tactics. He did now.

  John enjoyed the man’s company, the only company he had on the voyage. In turn, his new acquaintance from South Carolina seemed to enjoy the chance to talk about the flying he missed and take it upon himself to do all he could to improve Robinson’s chances at survival in a conflict he believed, from what he h
ad read in recent newspapers, was sure to come.

  The two did not limit their conversations to serious matters. Both shared funny stories about their flying. The Carolinian told of landing an old Jenny one day with a whole line of women’s laundry tangled in his undercarriage and streaming out behind—bloomers, nightgowns, and other unmentionables. He told John, “I had buzzed my girlfriend’s place right between the back porch and the barn. I caught plenty of hell from my instructor, but not near as much as I caught from the mother of a girl who quickly became my ex-girlfriend.”

  The greatest laugh they had together was when John told of the Decatur Country Club and the destruction of Janet Bragg’s OX-5 biplane. The Carolinian laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.

  “It wasn’t very funny at the time, I tell you.” John laughed. “No, sir! It was not funny at all. It did no good for Coffey and I to try and blame each other. We thought that woman was going to kill us both. It took us a year and a half to pay for the plane. ”