The days at Curtiss-Wright were wonderful beyond Robinson’s fondest dreams. He not only qualified as a licensed pilot, but he continued his training, learning aerobatics and qualifying in all the types of planes including multi-engine craft such as the big Ford Tri-motor, the most popular plane among commercial airlines at the time.
He so impressed the school with his mechanical knowledge and ability that he was offered an instructor’s job with the Curtiss-Wright School of Aviation Mechanics upon graduation.
These were no small accomplishments for any young man, but especially for a black man from a small town in Mississippi. Yet Robinson retained his modest demeanor. Instead of using his accomplishments to set himself apart, Robinson convinced the school to allow him to recruit a class in aviation mechanics from interested members of the study group that had built the little Heath Parasol. The first all-black aviation mechanics class pioneered in another way as well: There were women in the class.
He did not forget his friend Coffey. Cornelius Coffey moved to Chicago and enrolled in John’s first class in aviation mechanics. From there, John arranged for him to be accepted into the flying school. Robinson received his pilot’s license in 1927. Coffey got his in 1928.
Robinson’s energy and enthusiasm were limitless. He continued to teach mechanics at Curtiss-Wright while pursuing the advancement of his flying career. He earned a commercial, multi-engine, and air transport pilot rating, the first black in the United States to do so.
Because the Curtiss-Wright flying school was still not “generally available” to black students, Robinson called upon the leaders of Robbins, Illinois, an all-Negro town on the outskirts of Chicago. With their cooperation, Robinson led the group to establish Robbins Airport, America’s first airfield completely owned and operated by blacks.
Robinson with Coffey founded the Challenger Air Pilots Association for blacks interested in flying. The board of advisors was made up of John Robinson, president, Cornelius Coffee, Albert Crosby, Janet Waterford Bragg, Ben Hall, and George W. Mitchell. It cost three dollars to join. Members got a discount on flying lessons. One of the members, aviatrix Willow Brown, began taking lessons from Coffey in 1934, got her license in 1937, and became the first black pilot and one of the first women to be accepted by the Civil Air Patrol during World War II. The club grew in membership and adopted uniforms and wings for its members. The little Heath Parasol plane was put to use as a static display at dances and other social functions to help raise funds to benefit Robbins Airport and the Challenger Air Pilots Association.
Chapter 8
Hummingbird
BOTH ROBINSON AND COFFEY KNEW THERE WERE MANY BLACK Americans who wanted to learn to fly and that the field of aviation was all but closed to them. They decided they should provide a school for black pilots. The question was how. You could not start a flying school without a plane. True, they both had paying jobs, but all of Robinson’s and Coffey’s savings had gone to pay for advanced flying lessons. They were living paycheck to paycheck.
Fortune helped solve the problem. John read a newspaper advertisement by a car salesman named Abbott. The ad stated, “Airplane taken in on trade for sale.” John Robinson knew a thing or two about trading automobiles.
Abbott, a pilot himself, did not expect a black man to reply to his ad and at first did not take Robinson seriously. As with everything else concerning aviation, John was persistent. He had a Hudson sedan that he had completely rebuilt. John took Coffey with him to see Abbott. The car salesman inspected the Hudson, raised the hood, started the engine, and drove the car around the block.
“It’s a nice car,” he told them, “but I can’t trade even for the airplane.”
Robinson asked, “What kind of plane is it?”
Abbott answered, “It’s a White Hummingbird.”
“I’ve never heard of such a plane. Let’s go out and see it.”
The three of them climbed in the Hudson and drove out to the Chicago Airpark (later called Chicago Metropolitan Airport, and, later still, Midway Airport) where the plane was kept. They found it in the back of a hangar, rolled it out, and inspected it. They started the engine and ran it for a few minutes. It had a surplus OX5 engine from the Great War just like the one Robinson had fixed for the barnstormer’s Jenny and the one in Robert Williamson’s WACO-9 at Willow Run.
John asked, “The Hudson and how much more?”
Abbott replied, “How much you boys have?”
John, who had the car but no cash, looked at Coffey. Coffey said he had two hundred dollars. Robinson turned to Abbott. “The car and two hundred dollars, and you give each of us a one-hour checkout in the plane. Take it or leave it.”
Abbott scratched his head. “I don’t know . . .”
“Hell,” Robinson interrupted, “who else would buy an off-brand airplane as ugly as that one?”
Abbott walked up and down, looking first at the Hudson, then at the plane. Finally he walked back to them. “Okay, boys. Give me the keys to the Hudson and the two hundred bucks.”
Ironically, the White Hummingbird, a biplane that seated two in the front cockpit, was painted black. It was slow, a handful to recover from a spin, which it was prone to do if handled sloppily, but it flew. Robinson and Coffey had their first plane and their first partnership together. The John Robinson School of Aviation1 was soon to follow. One of the first students to apply to the school was a nineteen-year-old named Harold Hurd, who, it turned out, already had experienced basic training. Hurd, exhibiting some of the same persistence as Robinson, had talked a white instructor at the Chicago Air Park into giving him a few flying lessons at a price twice what he charged white students. It seems the only time available for Hurd’s lessons was in the morning at first light. It was obvious that the instructor picked that time of day so no one would likely discover that he was giving lessons to a black man. The instructor took Hurd’s money for lessons, but refused to solo him, arguing, “it would be bad for business.”
When John met Harold Hurd, he took an immediate liking to him. In turn, Hurd grew to look upon Robinson almost as a big brother. Robinson allowed Hurd to tag along with him in the air if he had an extra seat, as well as on the ground. Hurd once heard one of Johnny’s girlfriends complain, “Why do you always have to bring that kid along?”
Hurd recalls one incident that well illustrates the problems facing black pilots and students of aviation during the twenties and thirties: “On one occasion, Robinson agreed to check me out in an International OX5 biplane. When we took off, the International had less than a third of a tank of fuel. At the time, the Robbins Airport did not have aviation fuel facilities. Although the International had enough fuel for a checkout flight in the area of Robbins Airfield, John decided to let me fly to Ashburn Field so they could fill up the tank before returning to Robbins. (Ashburn was the oldest airfield in Chicago. It was often visited by Lindbergh and other great aviators of the day.) After landing at Ashburn, we taxied up to the fuel pump. When the attendant came out and discovered that the flyers were black, he informed us in no uncertain terms that Ashburn Field was closed to coloreds. He flat refused to sell us any gasoline. We were low on fuel, but had little choice but to take off since the ground crew and a couple of pilots hanging around were openly hostile toward us. We barely managed to reach Chicago Airpark. They allowed us to buy fuel.”
But despite the refusals he received and racism he faced, by persevering and pursuing his aviation dreams John Robinson was helping to break down barriers and to establish a legacy that would eventually open the way for black flyers to enter service in the Army Air Corps.
1 Coffey was often overheard calling it the Coffey School of Aviation. Though he later had a school of his own, some modern articles list Coffey’s name erroneously as Cornelius Robinson Coffey
Chapter 9
Tall Tree, Short Cotton
ROBINSON BECAME A PROFESSIONAL PILOT DURING THE GOLDEN Age of Aviation during the 1920s and 30s. Lindbergh soloed the Atlantic in 19
27, the year Robinson earned his pilot’s license. New aviation records were being made almost daily. Air races, stunt flying, and the rapid advance of aircraft design were all making headlines. Jimmy Doolittle, using Sperry’s new gyro-stabilized instruments and newly developed radio aids to navigation, successfully took off in a plane with a hood blocking his vision to the outside world, flew a predetermined course, and referring only to the aircraft’s instruments found the field and landed blind. Air travel was becoming more acceptable to the public.
John believed there was a place for Negro youth in aviation. He searched for better facilities and tools with which to teach them. He also believed that the best way to lead was by example and hard work, traits he had been taught at Tuskegee.
The Roaring Twenties rushed full throttle to their disastrous end, plunging the world’s economies into depression. Aviation suffered serious setbacks, but the strongest companies held on. One of those was Curtiss-Wright that retained, among its best employees, a black commercial pilot and aviation mechanic named John Robinson. And while the Robinson School of Aviation he and Coffey had established was hurt, it was not wiped completely out.
Determined to keep alive his own aviation career, Robinson was driven toward two unselfish dreams: One was to find a better way to open the field of aviation to black men and women; the other was to find an opportunity to prove to the world beyond doubt that Negroes could not only handle the mental, physical, and technological demands of flight, but could also excel in them. The timing of world events would offer him one or the other, but not both.
Unknown to John Robinson, there were two other men who had dreams, conflicting dreams, that would draw John Robinson into harm’s way.
One was named Ras Tafari and served as regent to Empress Zauditu, ruler of an ancient, unconquered Christian nation. His dream was to bring his people into the modern world. In 1930, upon the death of Empress Zauditu, her cousin and regent, Ras Tafari, became emperor of Ethiopia, formerly called Abyssinia. As was the custom, Ras Tafari took a new name, Haile Selassie, which translates as “Power of the Trinity.” Besides the title of Emperor he was also given the traditional titles Neguse Negest (King of Kings), Seyoume Igziabeher (Elect of God), and Moa Anbessa Ze Imnegede Yehuda (Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah).
After his coronation, Emperor Selassie opened the doors of his country to Western influence. His nation had chosen Christianity in the fourth century ad and had been isolated by the rise of Islam in Africa in the seventh century ad. Ethiopia was the only nation in Africa not to fall before Islamic swords or Western imperial powers. When Haile Selassie was made head of Ethiopia, it was comprised of five different peoples and numerous tribes. Four major languages were spoken. There were few schools. The country had never been fully mapped, never had a nation-wide census. Slavery was common; the highland Ethiopians often raided the Negroid Abigars and Annuaks of the Sudan area for manpower.
As regent, he had guided Ethiopia to membership in the League of Nations in 1923. As emperor, he implemented a new constitution that set up two houses of parliament. He appointed the members of the senate, not unlike the House of Lords in England, while the provincial leaders chose the members of the chamber of deputies. One of the many difficult changes in rule and policies assigned to the new parliament was the abolishment of slavery. He knew that to obtain respect and true recognition among the member states of the League, he would have to abolish slavery. The new government and its ambitious programs were not always well received by some of the tribal leaders. Nonetheless, Haile Selassie was determined to bring his nation into the twentieth century. This dignified African leader, small in physical stature, was growing tall in terms of world respect.
The second of the two men with a dream that would affect John Robinson was a school dropout, an atheist, and a former Italian corporal during the Great War. His name was Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini. Fancying himself a modern Caesar, his dream was to restore the “Glories of Rome” to Italy. Dubbed Il Duce (the leader) by his followers, he invented a new dictatorial form of government called Fascismo and seized power over Italy in 1922 using the brutal force of his black-shirt Fascist thugs to intimidate opposition. For a while it looked as though he might have his dream of a new Roman Empire. With the total power of a dictator, he did much to modernize Italy beginning with war machinery. By 1930 Italy was a leader in terms of modern tanks, planes, and guns. Mussolini built roads and bridges. He decreed that the trains would run on time. They did. He strutted out on balconies to tell his people what a great man he was. The problem was his spending. Italy was already under great stress when world depression threatened to collapse its economy altogether and Mussolini with it. He had promised a new Italian Empire. At great expense, he had built a war machine. His only choice now was to use it. But where?
Back in Chicago, John Robinson was too busy chasing his own dreams to pay attention to world affairs. In his quest to open the field of aviation to America’s black youth, he hit upon an idea. Why couldn’t his old school, Tuskegee Institute, create a school of aviation? His inquiry to Tuskegee’s officials raised interest. He received an invitation to visit the school for the tenth reunion of his graduation class. It was 1934. John accepted.
What better way to present Tuskegee with his idea for a school of aviation than to arrive by air? John invited his partner, Cornelius Coffey, and Grover C. Nash, a black pilot Robinson had taught to fly, to make the flight with him.
The immediate problem was what plane to use. The Robinson School plane was heavily scheduled by student pilots. Considering the times, it would not be prudent to turn away paying customers. Nash owned a small Buhl Pup monoplane with a forty-five horsepower, three-cylinder Szekely radial engine, but it had only one seat. What John needed was a two-place plane to fly himself and Cornelius to Tuskegee. John turned to Janet Waterford Bragg, a former flying student of his and member of the Chicago Challenger Air Pilots Association. It was no secret that John Robinson had a certain attraction to the ladies. Janet Waterford Bragg could not only fly, she was the proud owner of an OX5 biplane. In 1934 that was extraordinary. Bragg was a registered nurse with a steady job that paid well by Depression standards.
It took all of John’s considerable charms to persuade Bragg to lend him her plane to fly all the way to Tuskegee, Alabama, and back. She was not enthusiastic, but finally agreed with the stern warning, “I paid all my savings, $600, for that plane. Don’t you put a scratch on it!” (As a registered nurse she made, on average, $936 a year at a time when an average doctor’s income was $3,382.)
The flight took careful planning. Gordon Nash’s Buhl Pup carried only ten gallons of fuel and burned a little over three gallons per hour at a cruise speed of seventy miles per hour. Some of the planned legs of the flight would stretch the little Buhl’s range to the maximum. The ninety horsepower OX5 in the International biplane burned nine gallons per hour, but had considerably more range with its fifty-gallon tank. Although the biplane could cruise at eighty-five miles an hour, they would fly at the Buhl’s slower speed to keep Nash in sight.
The flight went well until they left Tennessee heading toward Birmingham, Alabama. On this leg of the flight they encountered twenty mile per hour headwinds. Checking his progress over the ground and watching his fuel indicator, Nash began to doubt he could reach Birmingham. An hour later, he was sure of it. He was running out of fuel.
Nash looked back at the trailing biplane, waggled his wings, and pointed at his gas tank. Coffey nodded acknowledgment. While Robinson flew the plane, Coffey got out a chart to search for the nearest airfield. Trying to unfold a map and read it in an open cockpit biplane takes concentration. When unfolding it to the section needed, one slip and the whole thing will blow out of the cockpit. Coffee held onto the chart, but couldn’t find a nearby airfield marked on it. They remained on course toward Birmingham while looking for a field, any field suitable for a safe landing. Twenty minutes later, Nash waggled his wings again and began pointing with more
gusto at his nearly empty fuel tank.
Not quite to Decatur, Alabama, where there was an airport, Nash signaled that he had to land, airport or not. He turned and began to descend toward the only available landing area he could see, the Decatur Country Club, about two miles to the west of their course. The nearest suitable fairway was smooth and straight but pretty short. Nash landed with only a few drops of fuel left in his tank. Robinson, who had circled above while Nash landed, now brought Janet Bragg’s biplane around and slipped it nicely onto the short, smooth fairway.
To say that the few golfers out that day were surprised is hardly adequate. Not one, but “two airplanes landed right there on number six fairway!” If the golfers were startled at seeing the two planes land, they were utterly astonished when three black pilots climbed down from the cockpits. No less awed were their Negro caddies who couldn’t have stared more wide-eyed if some ghostly apparition had suddenly appeared.
Only one of the golfers recovered sufficiently to draw attention to his game. “By God! I should be allowed a free shot. That damn airplane nearly took my head off!” There was some merit to his argument. He had been engaged in putting just as Nash flew close overhead for a landing. The golfer’s ball shot clear off the green to the next fairway.
It was such an amazing event that once things calmed down, the foursome and their caddies led the intrepid pilots to the clubhouse, but stopped short of inviting them into the all-white establishment. They did have a colored locker room attendant bring them glasses of ice water on a silver tray while one of the members volunteered to go in and call for a gas truck.
The Man Called Brown Condor Page 9
