The Man Called Brown Condor

by Thomas E. Simmons

  While all this was taking place, Mulu brought promising reports from the southern front. The two Ethiopian armies of the south had very different leaders than those of the north. One army was under the command of Ras Desta Damtu, the other under Ras Nasibu, who had traveled extensively abroad. Both were young, progressive, and loyal. There was also Ethiopia’s only female general, Weizero Asegedech, who led the thirty thousand warriors of her late grandfather, Ras Tassama. Her warriors were armed with modern rifles and machine guns she had bought for them herself.

  With the aid of an old but knowledgeable Turkish officer named Mehmet Wahib Pasha, perhaps better known as Wahib Pasha, the troops of the southern armies were better trained and equipped than those of the north. The officer, who had been exiled by Turkey’s dictator Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, insisted on wearing his Ottoman fez and gray-green uniform from the Great War. He had commanded Turkish troops at Gallipoli after which he was given command of the Turkish 2nd Army. It was said that he came to the aid of Ethiopia because he absolutely loathed Mussolini.

  In the early battles, the Ethiopians on the southern front held their own against Italian probes, knocking out many of their light tanks upon which the Italian infantry depended for supporting fire, but the Ethiopians found they could not attack in force. They were under constant surveillance by Graziani’s reconnaissance aircraft and if caught on the move would be subjected to incessant bombing and strafing by the Regia Aeronautica.

  Increasingly, Mulu’s reports grew less encouraging. The Ethiopians were faltering under constant air attacks. The reports also indicated the effects that poor rations, malaria, and dysentery had on the Ethiopian troops. The only good news was that deep behind the southern front, the fortifications of the cities of Harar and Ogaden, all organized by Wahib Pasha, were complete and manned by Ras Nasibu’s army of thirty thousand.

  On the first day of January 1936, John, Paul, and Mulu were all together in Addis Ababa for the first time in a month. In celebration, they managed to gather the fixings for a small feast at a time when rations were becoming lean in the capital that was now subject to occasional bombing raids. A lamb was prepared for dinner. Corriger supplied choice French wine from his seemingly endless supply.

  The three sat on cushions around a low table, talking not of war but of the good times they had spent together before the fighting began. They ate, drank, and spoke of the beauty of the landscape to which they had introduced John during his early days of Ethiopian flying.

  “It’s so different from what I expected,” John admitted. “I thought it would be all desert, brown and rocky. A lot of it is raw and primitive, but I’ve seen the green valleys, snowcapped mountains, and rivers like the Omo cutting its way through jungle on its way to Kenya. It’s beautiful. I wish my momma could fly with me to Lake Tana and follow the Blue Nile, see the waterfalls and rainbows and watch the sun light up the clouds that rest on the mountaintops.”

  “I believe, mon ami,” replied Corriger, “that you have the romantic soul of a Frenchman.”

  “What I believe is that you two have been deep into French wine,” said Mulu, with a smile. “Which reminds me, Corriger, I hope you have your wine cellar well hidden so the Italians won’t find it.”

  “Hell,” said John, “if you haven’t found it with me sending him off on errands just so you can look for it, the Italians damn well won’t find it.”

  “So that is what you two do when Paul Corriger is away. You are untrustworthy friends and terrible flyers, but this is war. What can one expect? So! I will share my secret even though you are undeserving. I get the wine from a British friend, Gerald Burgoyne, in charge of transporting medical supplies. He somehow manages to get me a case of French wine now and then mixed in with medical supplies shipped up from Djibouti.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “What, John?”

  “You didn’t hear? Burgoyne was killed up north in an Italian bombing. The damn Italians are bombing and gassing field hospitals and ambulance planes. Count Rosen’s plane, painted white with huge red crosses on the wings, was destroyed on the ground last week at Quoram. I know damn well their pilots can see the red crosses in the centers of the big white circles painted on hospital tents and air ambulances. That’s one target they fly low over ’cause they know they are all unarmed.”

  Paul spoke up. “Tonight we agreed not to speak of such things. Our bellies are full, the wine is from another and better year, and we are together for the moment. Let’s drink to that.”

  On the southern border near Kenya where the Ganale Doria River crosses into Italian Somaliland, General Graziani had assembled supplies and strengthened his one Italian division by bringing up several divisions of Eritrean Askaris. At dawn on January 12, Graziani’s artillery opened fire on the Ethiopians, beginning a battle that would become known as the Massacre of Ganale Doria.

  Mulu Asha had landed behind a quiet section of the Ethiopian line at sundown the day before. He was at the message center to pick up reports to deliver to Addis Ababa when Graziani’s artillery opened the battle. He took the dispatch case and ran to his plane hidden under brush just off a tiny cleared landing strip. He had managed to get the plane uncovered when the first wave of Marchetti SM 81 tri-motor bombers roared overhead. The tops of their wings were painted in large red sunburst patterns designed to make them easier for search and rescue planes to spot should any be forced down in the semi-desert terrain. Mulu and his helpers rushed for cover. As they ran, a bomb exploded fifty yards ahead of them. Mulu did not remember hearing the blast. When he awoke, the cool air of dawn had been replaced by midmorning heat. Sounds of fighting and rifle fire drifted faintly from a distance.

  Something was wrong. He fought nausea as his mind cruelly regained consciousness. He felt pain, pain he had never felt before. His left eye was not working. His face felt like it was on fire. His throat and lungs were burning. He could not get enough air. Trying to get up, he crawled over the body of one of his ground crewmen before staggering to his feet. Through his right eye he saw the smoldering wreck of his plane. Mulu tore at his canteen and poured water down his burning throat. Then he tried to wash a foul-smelling liquid from his face and arms.

  “What’s happening?” he asked hoarsely of a passing Ethiopian rifleman.

  “Move. We have order to move back. We can’t hold. The yellow rain,” he said by way of explanation. The rifleman looked at Mulu a moment. “Take that and move.” He pointed Mulu to the canteen of the dead crewman, and then he joined the retreating riflemen.

  Mulu took the canteen and followed them.

  Graziani had given the Regia Aeronautica special orders that morning. The Marchetti SM 81 tri-motor bombers carried no ordinary bombs. The ones dropped that morning were filled with mustard gas, which is not a gas at all but a sticky liquid aspirated into droplets small enough to be breathed, or sometimes, depending on the device used, thrown out in blobs erupting from imperfectly exploding casings. In addition to delivering mustard gas in bombs and artillery shells, numbers of Italian planes, equipped with spray booms and pumps, laid down “yellow rain.” The spray planes flew in-trail so that a continuous “rain” of mustard gas would saturate a targeted enemy position or troops on the move. The Ethiopians did not understand the “yellow rain” and were terrified by it. The Italians gassed villages of unarmed civilians as part of their new “terror” strategy.

  Mustard gas on contact blisters human skin. If breathed in, it blisters the lungs. Wherever it touches skin, it burns horribly. If the lungs are severely coated, pulmonary edema follows causing death by asphyxiation. The victim literally drowns as the lungs fill up with liquid. Agonizing death comes sometimes in hours, sometimes in days. It is a horrible way to die.

  Ethiopia had no gas masks when gas was first used on the northern front. They appealed to the International Red Cross Committee (ICRC) in Geneva to send gas masks. Italy was trying to hide the fact that they were using gas. Under Italian, French, and Swiss influence, the members of the I
CRC refused to send the masks on the basis that the appeal for gas masks by Ethiopia “did not state for what purpose they intended to use them.” If the ICRC approved the shipment of gas masks, they would have to explain to the media why they were doing so. Italy did not want such an explanation given; it would be embarrassing.

  The wife of the British consul in Addis Ababa, Lady Barton, organized the manufacture of gauze bandages impregnated with soda. Ethiopian soldiers wrapped them over their mouths and noses. Though primitive, breathing through soda gauze during gas attacks helped. When they ran out of the soda bandages, the troops were told to tear off pieces of their uniforms or shammas, urinate on them, and breath through them during attacks to help neutralize the gas. It was all they had.

  Using motorized columns, the Italians on the southern front outflanked the retreating Ethiopians. They rounded up and shot dispersed remnants of Ras Desta’s army. Others fleeing on foot across burning desert sand were often strafed by Italian planes. The few wells that lay along the path of retreat were poisoned by Graziani’s mechanized scouts.

  On the second day, Mulu ran out of water, as did all the retreating Ethiopians. Most had no food. Those who could keep walking did so. Those who could not were left behind.

  Mulu had been splashed by mustard gas. His arms and face were masses of raw blisters. His blind left eye had become infected. Pink, foamy spume leaked from his nose and lips. As he staggered on, he breathed with audible moans. Whether in the blazing heat of day or cool of night, there was no relief from pain. Only raw determination kept him going.

  On the fourth day, he was part of a large group that had managed to reach the Genale Doria River—the cool, blessed river. Crazed with pain, Mulu attempted to run toward the river. He stumbled and fell. Fighting for breath, he staggered up and tried to run again, but his damaged lungs would not support such effort. Struggling, stumbling, falling, he finally crawled to the river’s edge. The water waited there for him just down the slope of the riverbank.

  Machine gunfire erupted from across the river. To Mulu’s left and right, cries rang out all along the bank. Mulu crawled on, the pain in his eye unbearable. Almost to the water’s edge, Mulu felt a sharp pain tear through him. Pain! He was pain. His legs were no longer working. He pulled himself along with his raw, blistered hands until he could lower his face into the muddy, bloody river. He dropped his head, took a single sip. For one brief moment he felt blessed cool water soothe his poor face. Then . . .

  Mulu Asha was dead. They were all dead, all of them.

  Italian mechanized scouts, guided by air reconnaissance, had reached the river first. Setting up their machine guns on the far bank, they waited. They knew what was left of Desta’s army was staggering, thirst-crazed to the river.

  Three young Italian soldiers manning one of the water-cooled machine guns saw the dark-skinned hoard crest over the far bank like stampeding animals. Down poured the first wave to prostrate themselves at water’s edge, row upon row waiting their turn behind, bodies so densely pressed together not a grain of earth lay uncovered.

  On command, the young Italians opened fire. One of them fired the gun, swinging the barrel back and forth, the trigger pressed. The second one fed the ammunition belt into the breach, his hands growing raw from fast-moving cartridges coursing over his fingers. The third boy ran back and forth from their supply point carrying boxes of belted ammunition, lest they run out. It seemed to them it took forever before they were given the order of cease-fire.

  Steam rose from the overheated barrel of the water-cooled machine gun. There was not a sound save the ringing in their ears. The three babyfaced young Italian soldiers sat stunned. From the other side . . . not a cry, not a moan, silence. The far riverbank was covered with bodies piled on bodies, hundreds of them, many face down in water stained red by rivulets of blood streaming into the sluggish current.

  The road to Neghelli, capital of the southern Galla Borana district, now lay open to General Graziani. Just to make sure, he ordered forty tons of bombs to be dropped on the town. On January 20, 1936, Graziani occupied Neghelli for the glory of Fascist Rome.

  Chapter 20

  Sportsmen and Warriors

  JOHN AND PAUL NEVER KNEW THE FATE OF THEIR FRIEND AND FELLOW pilot. Mulu Asha had not returned from his last mission to the southern front. After news of the defeat of Desta’s army reached them, their hopes that Mulu would turn up among the survivors of the battle of Ganale Doria faded as weeks passed. John had lost other friends and pilots, but after the loss of Mulu, he sank into depression. He was physically and mentally weary. He could not understand a seemingly uncaring world that did nothing to stop Mussolini.

  Tired or not, Robinson continued flying unarmed planes between Addis Ababa and the front. He was often the only link carrying information between the emperor and his staff. The one bright spot was the Beechcraft. He loved the Staggerwing. It was fast enough to keep the Italian pursuit planes from catching him if he had a few minutes head start. The Staggerwing was rugged. Its vacuum-operated flaps allowed a low landing speed that got him in and out of hastily prepared, short landing strips. He no longer had to endure the cold flying at 12,000-foot altitudes. In the Beechcraft, five people could fly in the comfort of a heated cabin. It was true that a Staggerwing was quick to reward a gear or wing-bending ground loop to a pilot who let his attention drift during landing, but in the air it would do anything a pilot asked of it. John demanded everything it could deliver.

  The emperor took special interest in the beautiful new plane and was reassured by John’s praise of it. John flew him to and from the front lines. The few times he could not stay ahead of the Italians, he easily lost them in the almost ever-present clouds, flying with confidence on instruments. The rabbit had turned into a fox able to throw the dogs off the scent. His one fear was the plane being caught on the ground. Though he had suffered a mild mustard gas attack on the ground (which affected his breathing for some time), he did not give the Italians another chance to shoot up his plane.

  John C. Robinson was becoming somewhat of a hero in the United States, particularly in the Associated Negro Press (ANP). The African Methodist Episcopal Church (AME) and other groups raised funds to aid Ethiopia. Such groups considered John their representative. The Daily Herald newspaper in his hometown of Gulfport published articles about Robinson. His family was openly proud of him but privately deeply feared for his safety.

  Like all mothers, Celeste Cobb could read between the lines of her son’s letters. Sometimes, when she was alone in her kitchen reading a newly arrived letter (four to six weeks old), she could feel the sadness she knew must lie in her Johnny’s heart. Too proud to show her fear, she would quickly dry her eyes with her cotton apron and busy herself with household chores. She tried especially hard not to cry in front of Charles Cobb. She knew how worried he was about his boy, and she did her best to put up a brave front.

  Because of the press coverage he received in the United States, which was forwarded to Generals Badoglio and Graziani via Rome, John Robinson garnered special attention from the Regia Aeronautica. It was rumored that a price had been put on Robinson’s head payable to any Italian pilot who brought him down. Through skill, luck, and prayers, John continued somehow to get through.

  To many members of the Regia Aeronautica’s squadrons, the war had turned to sport. They were unopposed. The sky belonged to them. Searching for targets of opportunity, they made a sport of shooting small groups of “savages in need of civilizing” wherever they caught them in the open. It was good target practice, but not totally without hazard.

  Two young Italian sportsmen decided to go hunting one afternoon. They each took off in the latest Italian plane to arrive in Ethiopia, the IMAM RO 37, a two-place reconnaissance biplane. Normally they carried an observer-gunner in the rear cockpit, but this day the two machine guns mounted in the nose would be sufficient for their sporting purposes. They would each fly solo.

  Not too far in front of the Italian lines, they s
potted a group of warriors wearing traditional white shammas. They caught them late in the day on open flat ground and began to take turns making low strafing runs on the retreating Ethiopians. The warriors were tired and hungry. There was nowhere for them to hide and they could run no more. They had lost everything except courage.

  One of the young Italian pilots, swooping in low for his gun run, noticed that the Ethiopians had stopped and turned to face him. He saw orange flashes. They were all kneeling, firing their rifles at him. He pulled up and banked steeply away to watch his wingman make a run. His wingman did not pull up in a turn but continued a slow climb toward the Italian lines. Something was wrong.

  The first pilot followed his fellow airman. As he easily closed on him, he could see a trail of vapor streaming from the aircraft. It had to be fuel. A few moments later, the stricken aircraft’s propeller stopped turning. With a dead engine, the pilot had no choice but to put the IMAM down. He picked a reasonably flat area of scrub brush and made a successful landing. The second IMAM circled low overhead and rocked his wings when the pilot of the downed aircraft stepped from his cockpit and waved.

  It was late in the day. The pilot of the second plane knew the sun set rapidly near the equator. There was no way a rescue team could find the downed airman before dark. He pulled up and flew an expanding circle around the area. Maybe he could find and alert an Italian scouting party.

  About three miles away, he saw not an Italian scouting party but a group of about thirty Ethiopian soldiers on a hilltop. It seems he had not been the only one to see his friend go down. As he watched, the warriors began leaving the hill in the direction of the downed plane. Pulling up in a tight turn, the pilot leveled his wings, lined up on them, and fired. They quickly dispersed and tried to take cover behind scrub bush. The Italian hit many of them before he ran out of ammunition. He continued to make passes hoping to slow them or turn them back, but when he did not fire, they knew he was bluffing, that he was out of ammunition. Fifteen or so of them stood up and began moving again.