“Well,” replied Mills, “you have to admit it would make a good story: Two black pilots from America compete in the sky over Ethiopia.”
“I don’t think he’s really American. I heard he comes from Trinidad, learned to fly in Canada. I’d thank y’all not to brew up trouble for me before I even get unpacked.”
Jim Mills was about to protest innocence when in walked Hubert Fauntleroy Julian who had, as it turned out, just been asked the same question by a reporter on the front steps of the hotel. The reporter, eager for a story, told Julian that Negro papers in America were claiming that Robinson had been the one to convince the emperor that Julian should never again be allowed to fly for Ethiopia.
Julian, the Black Eagle, dressed in an infantry officer’s uniform, appeared more than a little irate. When someone pointed out Robinson, he walked up to John and accused him of smearing his reputation and trying to steal his style.
Although John had a quiet and serious demeanor, there was beneath the surface a short fuse when it came to being pushed around. Before Mills could stand between the two, the Eagle pushed the Condor, and suddenly there was mayhem spilling out of the bar into the lobby. Some say Julian pulled a knife, though that was never proved. What did happen is that it took the entire press corps to separate the two. Julian was escorted out of the hotel and Robinson was convinced to retire to his room. That was barely accomplished before messengers dispatched from the Royal Palace delivered orders directly to Robinson, Julian, and the members of the press making it clear that there would be no more such displays and no report of the incident in any news stories—or heads would roll. The members of the press, doing what they could to straighten up the furniture in the bar and lobby, were not at all sure the warning about “heads rolling” shouldn’t be taken literally.
What was made very clear to all involved was that with an Italian army on the border, the emperor wanted no personal feuds between the two American black pilots. Both could aid in recruiting volunteers, funds, and support from the United States and elsewhere. They were therefore too valuable to be allowed to create petty scandal. (According to Julian’s biography, The Black Eagle, he was later expelled once again from Ethiopia under charges for taking money from and working for the Italians—an allegation never proven.)
After another bath and a change into freshly laundered clothes, the only evidence that Robinson had been in a fight was a bump on the side of his head where Julian had hit him with a broken chair leg.
Answering a knock at the door, John was greeted by the same man that had taken away his laundry. “Dinner” was the only word the man spoke that he could understand.
Robinson ventured once again to the downstairs lobby, where he was met by Ras Mebratu and two men he did not know, one black, one white. Mebratu greeted John. “May I introduce your companions for this evening: Monsieur Paul Corriger and Ato Mulu Asha, both pilots. You will be happy to know they speak English. Gentlemen, Mr. John Charles Robinson.”
The men shook hands all around.
“Mr. Robinson, you will be free to rest and tour the city for a few days. As you can understand, the emperor is very busy these days. He will not send for you until next Friday at the earliest.”
Mebratu then took his leave announcing, “Forgive me, but I cannot join you. I have a meeting at the palace.”
A few moments later the hotel clerk informed the little group, “Gentlemen, your car is waiting.”
The three pilots crowded into the back seat of a 1930 Citroen C-4 sedan. They drove across the capital leaving behind the only paved stretch of road in the country, a broad avenue called Babur Mangued, which roughly translates as Steam Train Avenue because at one end there stood the train station, a small version of the grand French design. The avenue had been paved in preparation of the negus’s 1930 coronation to allow foreign dignitaries and other guests arriving by train a smooth ride to the palace, and to provide a parade route for the celebration in which the newly crowned emperor rode in the open back seat of his maroon Rolls-Royce.
After passing out of the city, the driver settled down to a speed of twenty-five miles an hour, the most the rough country road would allow without shaking the car to pieces. The night was chilly and the cool air flowing through the open windows afforded the only comfort the three passengers had as they were jostled shoulder to elbow in the hot backseat of the roadworn Citroen.
John asked, “Do I call you Ato or Mulu?”
Mulu Asha laughed. “Mulu please. Ato is Ethiopian for mister or, in Paul’s language, Monsieur.”
Paul Corriger added, “While we are at it, ras as in your host’s name, Ras Mebratu, means chieftain or prince.”
“I sure didn’t know that. I have a lot to learn. I hope you two will keep me out of trouble.”
As the car bumped and jostled them, the men talked a little about flying. Corriger was one of several French pilots and mechanics brought in several years before to do the flying and aircraft maintenance for Ethiopia. Mulu Asha was one of a rare handful of Ethiopians who had recently returned from England where they had gone to school and then received pilot training from the Royal Air Force.
After a while the trio settled into silence as they rode into the night. Left to his own thoughts, John worried about the scuffle with Julian earlier in the evening. Would it find its way into the papers at home? He had come halfway around the world, volunteered to risk his life to promote black aviation, only to begin by displeasing the emperor and giving the press exactly the wrong kind of publicity. He cursed himself for allowing the stupid incident to happen.
The driver turned off the main road onto a narrow unimproved lane. John had been told that tonight’s dinner would be a small informal affair at the home of Ras Tamru, a wealthy chieftain, friend and supporter of the palace. When they reached the home, John was surprised to see that it was architecturally like the toucouls he had seen from the train, a traditional round mud and wattle structure with a conical thatched roof. The difference in this one was its size. It was much larger than any he had seen and its walls were covered in whitewashed stucco. John soon discovered that any resemblance of Ras Tamru’s home to the toucouls of the poor ended with the outward appearance. The thick wooden front door opened to reveal an interior of huge proportions. A stone and copper fireplace dominated a large center area. Thick draperies formed small partitioned areas within the round structure. The floor was covered with beautiful, thickly woven carpets. Two lion skins were spread near the fireplace which served as the center of activity and was used both for heating and cooking. Around the fireplace were Western-style furnishings. To one side, a group of chairs were arranged around a table. Other than the fire the only additional illumination was provided by oil lamps. At the top of the cone-shaped roof was a round opening to the sky, which served as a natural chimney above the fireplace.
John was introduced to his host, Ras Tamru, though not to the interpreter who remained in the shadow of the chieftain. The man would step forward whenever his services were needed only to retreat into the shadows. After everyone was comfortably seated, two women who had been busy preparing food brought cups filled with talla, a native beer brewed from barley. The host wanted to hear about John’s trip and whether he found his accommodations satisfactory. Following more polite talk, the host motioned the group to the table. When all were settled their cups were refilled with talla.
Ras Tamru, through his interpreter, asked Robinson, “What is the mood in America concerning the Italian threat of war with Ethiopia?”
“To be truthful,” John replied, “from what I read in the newspapers before leaving home, many Americans have become what they call isolationist. They do not favor getting into any more foreign wars following America’s involvement in the Great War.”
Ras Tamru replied, “Our emperor, through his appeal to the League of Nations, has tried to convince the Western world that Mussolini’s appetite might include more than our small African nation. A hungry lion does not take just on
e taste from a farmer’s goat. He finishes one goat and takes another and another and sometimes the farmer himself.”
There was a momentary sense of uneasiness at the table. Ras Tamru sensed it and changed the subject. “But, it is time for you pilots to talk of flying.”
Corriger and Mulu told a few light stories about their own flying experiences, then began a serious discussion about the kind of terrain and weather John would encounter. They expressed their confidence in Robinson based upon his flying reputation, and they recited to their host facts they knew about him.
One thing was clear to John. These people know a great deal about my qualifications and flying experience and a lot more about my country than I know about theirs.
Food arrived at the table. A huge, thin, pancake-shaped bread was placed in the middle of the table. Mulu Asha explained that it was injera, the staple bread of Ethiopia made from a native grain called teff. He said he hoped John would like it because he would be eating a great deal of it if war came and he found himself away from the capital and its few Western restaurants. The injera almost covered the small table.
From a pot, a thick, spicy sauce with small chunks of meat was ladled right onto the injera. Mulu told him the meaty sauce was called wat. From other pots, a variety of vegetables were spooned onto the bread in separate piles. The diners’ cups were refilled.
John had not been given a plate or fork. He turned to Corriger and asked how they were to eat. Corriger shrugged with a smile. Mulu said something in Amharic to the host who laughed. Ras Tamru turned to John and motioned for him to watch. With his fingers he tore off a wedge of the injera, folded it slightly, scooped up some of the wat and put it in his mouth followed by a sip of talla. John nodded, tore off a small piece of the bread, scooped up some wat and managed to get most of it in his mouth, spilling only a little down the front of his suit.
As the meal continued, he was surprised to find that not only did he have to eat with his own fingers, but from the fingers of others. It seemed to be a part of Ethiopian hospitality. Everyone fed everyone else. There was more than one course. Different foods were added here and there to the shrinking bread pancake. When John got up enough courage to ask what might be in the fiery morsels that seemed to be flying into his mouth from all directions, Mulu and Corriger took turns checking off the list: lamb, goat, beef, chicken, eggs, ox tongue, cheese, peppers, spices, and anything else that might be handy. To his surprise, John found it all tasted pretty good, but he wondered whether the concoction would blow his insides apart. When he mentioned this to his companions, Mulu interpreted John’s comment to their host. Ras Tamru laughed and called to a servant to bring fresh cups. They arrived filled with a golden orange liquid. Mulu explained that it was called tej, made from fermented mead and honey, and that if a cup or two failed to quench the fire of the belly, several cups would certainly take one’s mind off the problem. After a few sips, John wasn’t sure it wouldn’t just take one’s mind, period.
The ability to understand one another’s language appeared to grow in direct proportion to the flow of the native amber wine. Amharic, English, and French were all exchanged as if everyone understood perfectly what each person was saying, the tej not only making everyone at the table multilingual, but also placing the entire group in agreement with whatever was being said at any given moment.
When it was suggested that the group venture back to town to further acquaint their new American friend with the cultural aspects of Ethiopia, all present voted in favor. The host and his three guests loaded into the Citroen sedan. The driver, who may have had a little talla himself while waiting, charged forth.
Once again the cool air blowing in the windows helped make the crowded sedan a little more comfortable. It also helped to steady John’s stomach, which he was sure had been on fire shortly after the meal ended. Wherever they were going, John was determined to conduct himself in a manner befitting what he had been assured was his new rank, that of captain.
That is, if I still have a chance of any rank at all after the run-in with Julian.
When they re-entered the city, John was reminded of just how great a task Haile Selassie had in trying to modernize his nation. The sanitary problems alone were enough to stagger any civil engineer. In the suburbs of mud brick structures surrounding the city center, there was no sewerage or waste disposal system. Outdoor privies were the best solution they had for sewerage. Garbage and trash were simply tossed into the streets to be rummaged through by the poor and occasionally picked up by trash wagons.
That night John witnessed a waste disposal system provided by nature. As the sedan rounded a corner, its lights illuminated the surprised faces of a pack of spotted hyenas feeding on the evening’s garbage. Before he could speak, the beasts were lost in the darkness behind them. Since none of his companions paid the least attention, John wondered if he hadn’t had a little too much tej.
The Citroen pulled up in front of a fairly modern structure with a large archway spanning two heavy doors, one of which was open. The four men got out and walked inside. The place was crowded. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the soft light provided by a few electric fixtures and oil lamps. Around small tables, groups of Ethiopian men were eating, smoking, drinking, and talking jovially. There were a few Ethiopian women scattered among the patrons.
John noticed several white faces in the room, ferenjis, members of the Western press, diplomatic staffers, and perhaps a few military advisors and medical team volunteers he had heard about. He and his new friends seated themselves on cushions around a small low table. Cups of wine soon arrived. John was determined to sip very slowly and only a little.
A group of musicians struck up a wild rhythmic tune just as a voice from behind him called his name. Surprised, John turned to see Jim Mills, the Associated Press correspondent whom he had met at the hotel bar, sitting at the next table.
“You’re not doing badly for a new boy on the block.”
Before John could reply, a burst of applause arose from the crowd. To the delight of the customers, several dark-skinned girls entered the cleared area in the center of the club and began to dance to the exotic music.
John, glad for the company of a fellow American, turned to Mills, “This beats hyenas for entertainment.”
Mills laughed. “Speaking of entertainment, would you like a little company now and then during your stay?” Before John could answer, Mills added, “Of course, you might have to marry one.”
“In that case, no thank you.”
“Oh, it’s not all bad. Which type of marriage do you want?”
“Which type? Just how many kinds of marriage they got here?” Mills explained, “Under Ethiopian custom there are three.”
“Three?”
“Just listen and learn, my friend. The first, foremost, and least common is the church marriage or Qurban. Now that one you have to be careful of. It is considered sacred and indissoluble. Young people are considered too unstable for this type of marriage. The second type called semanya is more common. It is a civil contract marriage blessed by a priest. It can be dissolved by mutual consent or court decision.”
“And the third type?” questioned John with a little more interest.
“The third type,” replied Mills, “is called damoz or wage marriage. Traditionally, this kind of marriage is provided to a man traveling far from home. You certainly qualify there. Its purpose is to provide such a man with a temporary wife for which he pays a fee. At the end of the marriage, no further obligations are owed unless a child has been born.”
“That’s the smartest approach to marriage I’ve ever heard. Mussolini says he is coming here to civilize the savages of Abyssinia. He might do better to send the Pope over here to study civilized marriage. You ought to put that in your paper.”
Mills replied, “Oh, but that won’t sell as many newspapers as the idea of the seat of the Christian world making war on the oldest Christian nation in Africa. Hell, Italy declared a Fascist Sun
day to convince all those young conscripted Italian soldiers and their families that God is on Mussolini’s side. That bastard Mussolini means to have a war with these Ethiopians.” Jim Mills looked around the room. “These bright, funny, proud, and hospitable friends of mine just can’t move this ancient nation into the twentieth century in time to meet the threat of modern warfare. Anyway,” Jim raised his cup, “here’s a toast to you, my Brown Condor, and to me and all the other poor bastards who trade home for the wild winds of fortune.”
Jim smiled and added, “Happy flying.”
Chapter 15
Rocks in the Clouds
THE THREE WRIGHT WHIRLWIND J-5 ENGINES OF THE 1930 FOKKER F-VII b/3 tri-motor droned steadily. In spite of experienced hands adjusting the throttles, the trio of propellers moved slightly in and out of synchronization, playing their own harmonic tune. John was flying left seat with Paul Corriger in the right seat acting as check-pilot. The high-wing tri-motor was the largest aircraft in Ethiopia’s stable. All seats in the cabin area behind the cockpit had been removed to make room for a cargo of six hundred gallons of aviation fuel carried in one hundred and twenty five-gallon tins stacked on pallets carefully secured with cargo nets and straps. The total weight of the fuel, tins, and pallets was barely within the maximum allowable cargo limit. Both Corriger and Robinson were aware of the dangerous cargo. They took turns at frequent intervals going back to check for leaks and to make sure the tins were all secured.
With the fuel in the wing tanks and six hundred gallons in the cargo bay, John had made the most careful takeoff of his flying career. At sea level and gross weight, the Junker would climb at a little over six hundred and fifty feet per minute. Taking off from the nearly eight-thousand- foot elevation of Addis Ababa, it was a struggle to reach two hundred feet per minute climb. He cringed at every bump and thump the landing gear took on the long takeoff run, praying the loose rocks wouldn’t blow a tire. It took nearly thirty minutes of circling to climb forty-three hundred feet above Addis Ababa to reach their cruising altitude of twelve thousand feet. The Fokker FVII b/3 had a service ceiling of only fourteen thousand feet at gross weight, but with no oxygen for the pilots, twelve thousand was as high as they cared to fly. That would get them through the mountain passes.
The Man Called Brown Condor Page 14
