The cargo of fuel would be off-loaded and stored at the ancient city of Adowa located some four hundred and fifty miles north of Addis Ababa near the Italian Eritrea border. It was at Adowa thirty-nine years before that the Ethiopians had soundly defeated an invading Italian army. News accounts of the day accused the Ethiopians of committing barbarous atrocities and told of the death of ten thousand Italian soldiers and the loss of seventy-two cannon. Il Duce had been thirteen when that disastrous event had occurred. Now, as his Italian army was massing on the Italian Eritrean border in preparation for a new invasion, Mussolini promised the Italian people he would avenge that defeat.
The figures concerning the cannon had stuck in John’s mind. Shortly after hearing the story of the Italian defeat, he learned that almost half of the present artillery strength of Ethiopia was comprised of those same antiquated seventy-two cannon captured in 1896. After looking over the Ethiopian inventory of aircraft, he was convinced they captured half their aircraft in the same battle. He had seen the list of aircraft presently on flying status. Listed were eight French Potez 25s powered by 450-horsepower, Lorraine-Dietrich engines—planes that were only slightly improved over the aircraft of the Great War. There was one tri-motor Fokker FVII b/3 (the one they were now flying), one old Farman F-192 single-engine transport, and two large Junkers W 33c single-engine transports. Not one of them was armed. About eight other planes were listed as “currently unserviceable.”
The flight Robinson and Corriger were making would serve three purposes: transporting a stockpile of fuel to Adowa, giving Robinson a checkout in the Fokker FVII b/3, and also familiarizing Robinson with some of the country over which he would be flying.
John looked down at the jagged terrain below. Their route of flight followed a road leading from Addis Ababa past Dessie, then a turn slightly to the left to cross the beginning trickle of the Takkase River and on toward the village of Skota. From there they picked up another trail that would lead them to the town of Adowa situated on the cusp of the rugged, hot, desert lowlands fifty miles from the Italian Eritrea border.
There were few maps of Ethiopia, none accurate enough for precise navigation, and no radio beacons or modern air navigational aids. A compass, a watch, a good memory for landmarks and terrain features, and a pilot’s own notes were the most dependable means of navigation available to a pilot in Ethiopia in 1935.
During John’s orientation, Corriger pointed out that it was extremely important to learn every valley, canyon, riff, riverbed, road, village, and other distinguishable terrain features. He reminded Robinson that unless he did, he could easily become lost. “Without such knowledge,” he said, “a pilot might fly up an unfamiliar canyon only to find that it narrowed too much to allow a turnaround and that the canyon walls rose faster than the plane could climb. If such a canyon terminates in a dead end, so will the plane and pilot. If you go down in the wilds of this country, even if you survive, it’s likely you won’t be found, at least before you die of thirst.”
Corriger had John’s attention. He recalled what he had read about the early mail pilots in the States. They drew their own maps, sketching important features along their route. Some of the notes might read, “Large barn with twin oaks at south end and windmill at east side by pond,” or “river fork with two sets of rapids points north. Course 320 degrees from fork.” If a pilot was flying above broken cloud or fog, his life might depend on his ability to recognize in one brief glance some feature on the ground that would tell him his present position.
As important recognizable features appeared below, Corriger shouted over the engine noise to point them out. John jotted down the information in his notebook along with compass courses and altitude, often adding crude drawings.
The central plains were at elevations between four thousand and ten thousand feet. The highlands had mountain peaks that towered above fourteen thousand feet. On this day, with the monsoon blowing moist air up from the sea, clouds and rain had kept them company. Flying at twelve thousand feet, sometimes above cloud cover, John could see mountaintops projecting out of the white fluff. He realized that the clouds of Ethiopia could have rocks in them.
Robinson appreciated the fact that had Paul Corriger not known every trail, ridge, stream, and rock outcropping along the way and not carried a notebook listing the compass course from one prominent terrain feature to the next, they could have easily made their mark in life at about the twelve-thousand-foot level on the side of some ridge, canyon wall, or mountainside. John entered every feature Paul pointed out to him in his own notebook. Ethiopia is about the size of Texas and Oklahoma combined. He had a great deal to learn.
John noticed the terrain had begun to drop toward the lowland desert. The rain and clouds faded behind them. Their destination was not far ahead.
Adowa, like most of Ethiopia’s towns and villages, had no airport. Corriger told him that a flat stretch of ground near a village would have to do for an airfield. John knew that the high-wing Fokker FVII b/3 tri-motor had a stout, fabric-covered steel tubing fuselage and plywood-skinned wooden wing. It was as strong as a bridge. Its thick-chord wing was capable of lifting almost any load that could be put in the plane. It incorporated a tough landing gear with large wheels and tires, which, by design, allowed the plane to operate from rough, unimproved fields. )
As instructed, John made a low pass over the village to alert the work detail of their arrival. Then he circled a landing area that had been cleared by the villagers and made a low pass for a close look at the landing zone. It was a flat, rocky stretch of ground.
“That’s it? Looks rough to me.”
Corriger answered, “Yes and yes.”
Circling once more, John lined up for the final approach to landing. He was sweating and not just from the heat. This was a test and he knew it. John spread his right hand over the three throttles on the center console. He eased them back a little and re-trimmed the aircraft. A few feet off the ground, John eased the three throttles back further, keeping a little power on to gentle the heavily loaded plane onto the ground.
The clattering sides of the Fokker FVII b/3 and the banging struts of the landing gear announced contact with Mother Earth. John pulled the throttles to idle. With use of the rudder and judicious application of brakes, he held a straight path. The plane waddled over the rough field, raising a cloud of dust before coming to a stop. After shutting down all three engines, the only thing Robinson could hear was a ringing in his ears. It was (and is) a common ailment of pilots who fly piston engine aircraft.
John sat slumped in his seat for a moment. The fatigue of the flight was settling on him. It always takes a little while for a pilot to transition from sky to ground. John reached down to unfasten his seat belt and noticed that the Frenchman was already out of his seat.
“Not bad,” Corriger said. “Not as good as Corriger, of course, but not bad. Now,” he continued, “we’ll be here for the night. By the time the work crew gets out here, unloads the plane, and refuels it, there won’t be enough daylight left to make the return flight to Addis Ababa. Clouds, rain, and the mountains are a challenge to any flight, but even for Corriger, night flying over this terrain is suicidal. There are few lights visible below and no way to recognize landmarks.”
Squeezing past the pallets of fuel tins to the rear door, Corriger took a large funnel from its storage place behind the rear cabin bulkhead. He and John stepped out into the heat of Adowa. It was a shock after the cold air that had filled the drafty cockpit at twelve thousand feet. Both men were quick to pull off their leather jackets and seek shade under the wing while they waited for the workers to arrive.
“Time for another lesson,” Corriger said. “We’ll oversee the refueling. Never trust anyone to fuel your plane unsupervised. Check the fuel from every tin and filter every drop that goes into your tanks. I discovered a tin from which someone had stolen half the petrol and replaced it with water, or maybe camel piss, both are about the same color around here. On another occas
ion, an opened tin had been tipped over and some of the fuel spilled. The poor devil who spilled it was so afraid he would be in trouble that he scooped up the puddled fuel with a pan and put what he could save back in the tin. Petrol is precious as gold here, but not when it’s full of sand or water. I think you see my point.”
John shook his head. “This is getting to be more fun all the time. How long have you managed to stay alive at this game?”
“Four and a half years, but if war comes, it will be all your game. My government will frown on a Frenchman fighting their neighbors the Italians.”
“Oh! That’s just great.”
“Don’t blame me. After all, war, if it comes, will be between you Ethiopians and Il Duce.”
“What you mean ‘you Ethiopians’? You know I’m not Ethiopian. My country don’t want this boy fighting Italians, either. Remember, I’m supposed to be over here selling airplanes that the League of Nations won’t let me import.”
“You will be.” Corriger looked at John with a peculiar smile.
“Will be what?”
“Will be an Ethiopian, mon ami.”
“Now tell me just how you figure that.”
“It’s simple. When the emperor receives you, he will already have my report on your excellent ability and qualifications. He will honor you by bestowing upon you rank, salary, and Ethiopian citizenship. Surely you will not refuse such an honor from the emperor himself.”
“Did he offer you citizenship?”
“I am afraid the color of my skin prevented him from making such an offer, but he has been most generous in the area of pay. It would be ungrateful of me to complain. C’est la guerre.”
A dozen Ethiopians arrived to unload and fuel the plane. John climbed up on the wing and took the funnel from Corriger. It had a chamois skin filter. After chamois leather has first been soaked in fuel, water will not pass through it. The work crew formed a line to pass the tins of fuel down from the plane and carry them to a storage area nearby where they would be hidden under desert-colored canvas and scrub brush. The Fokker FVII b/3 had a range of seven hundred miles. The round trip would be close to nine hundred miles. The last forty tins were passed up to the wing, opened, and their contents emptied into the Fokker FVII b/3 fuel tanks using the chamois filter.
John looked down at Corriger. “You crazy bastard, you won’t leave if the Italians start a war.”
“Of course not. But we won’t tell France that I am here fighting the Italians and we won’t tell America that you are an Ethiopian. We crazy bastards must stick together, no? Now pay attention to the fueling. The precious two hundred gallons they are filtering into our tanks added to the remains of our fuel from the trip out here ought to get us back to Addis Ababa tomorrow . . . if you don’t get us lost.”
Chapter 16
Audience with the Emperor
THE SUN BROKE THROUGH THE THINNING CLOUDS TO CHEERFULLY brighten the morning. John took it as a good omen on the day he was to meet Haile Selassie. The rain had turned the streets to mud but nobody seemed to notice. Robinson picked his way carefully trying to keep his shoes and pants clean until he reached the paved street that ran past the Arat Kilo Ghibi Palace, built by King Menelik in the late nineteenth century. The emperor lived in the Guenete Leul Palace but worked in the Imperial Ghibi Palace. The gate leading onto the palace grounds was guarded by two armed soldiers wearing greenish-khaki uniforms like those of the Belgian army. The smartly uniformed palace guards were special members of the seven thousand strong Imperial Body Guard, the most well equipped military unit in Ethiopia. The members of the palace guard itself were handpicked from a northern tribe noted for their height. Most of them were nearly seven feet tall. John presented the formal invitation he had received the day before. Written in Amharic characters and English beneath the royal seal, it requested his presence at the palace. The ranking guard examined the card, looked Robinson over carefully, motioned for him to wait just inside the gate on the palace grounds, and proceeded to the palace.
Moments later the guard returned with an equally tall man carrying a sword and dressed in white jodhpurs and puttees but no shoes. He motioned Robinson to follow him past two lions chained beside the walk leading up to the palace steps. One lion was asleep. The other watched with deep staring eyes as they passed.
At the top of the steps, John was turned over to the emperor’s chamberlain who led him into the palace and down a hall to a pair of massive, beautifully carved doors. With no apparent order given, the doors were swung open by two uniformed guards. Robinson hoped the excitement he felt would not show.
The doorway opened into a large, high-ceilinged room. To the left side was a magnificent carved desk, to the right side stood a cavernous marble fireplace. The focal point sitting on a plush Oriental carpet was a gilt chair upholstered in red brocade and bearing in gold thread a likeness of the imperial crown. The chair, quite large and sitting on a raised platform, was occupied by small man, bearded and dark complexioned with an aquiline nose and the most penetrating black eyes John had ever seen. John bowed slightly before the emperor as he had been instructed by the chamberlain.
The man before him, dressed in an immaculate military uniform, appeared weary, but his eyes reflected both energy and warmth. Robinson was not the first to sense a calm dignity, almost an aura of regal bearing, when in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie I, Emperor of Ethiopia, King of Kings, Elect of God, and Conquering Lion of Judah.
The emperor smiled. With a motion of his hand, he summoned the royal interpreter.
“Mr. Robinson, do you by chance speak French?”
“Just Southern English I’m afraid.”
“I asked because His Majesty speaks French fairly well but English only haltingly.” The interpreter turned to the emperor and bowed, indicating the audience could begin.
The emperor spoke in Ethiopia’s national language, Amharic, and the interpreter translated. “His Majesty says we welcome you, John Robinson. We are honored and deeply grateful that you have traveled so far to offer your services to Ethiopia.”
John replied that it was he who was honored to serve His Majesty, a man he had long admired. “I hope my ability as a pilot will be of some value to you and your country.”
The emperor paused often for the interpreter to speak. “His Majesty has studied your qualifications and the reports of your performance by our own air group since your arrival. They are excellent reports. As you must know, we are in the process of training Ethiopian pilots, but none have yet attained the level of your skill and especially your experience. We have therefore continued to rely on our French airmen to lead our air service. If war cannot be avoided—and we pray it will be—but if it cannot, the French staff will be placed in an awkward position. France insists that these men cannot fight against her neighbor, Italy. Belgium, likewise, is anxious to avoid giving offense to Italy. The official Belgian military mission here will be withdrawn in the event of war. We have arranged for certain Belgian volunteers, some from the Congo, to discreetly return as advisors. However, they will not be allowed to enter actual combat and risk embarrassment to their native Belgium. If their nationals were captured, neither France nor Belgian would appreciate being caught in such an international incident. Because of the color of their skin, they certainly could not pass for Ethiopians. Also, in the case of the French pilots, we are afraid our people, under the stress of war, would have natural suspicions of any white ferenjis that might fall from the sky and be captured. We could not guarantee their safety.”
The interpreter continued, “That being said, His Majesty would like for you, John Robinson, to consider the following offer: the rank of colonel and command of the Imperial Ethiopian Air Corps and, of course, Ethiopian citizenship which would protect your country from any similar embarrassment.”
The emperor continued through his interpreter, “We understand your concern. We do not want to endanger your American citizenship. We have discussed this with the honora
ble Cornelius Van Enger, your country’s chargè affaires here in Addis Ababa, and he feels this can be looked upon as dual citizenship. We will refer officially to your service as advisory.
“I admit that our selfish interest will be served by the publicity your activities will generate in the American press, but I ask if this is not one of the reasons you are here?”
John had to agree. “That’s true, but not for me personally so much as to help open aviation to blacks in my country. If a black man can prove his flying ability here, a black man should be allowed to do the same in America.”
The emperor nodded.
His interpreter continued, “His Majesty says you will, of course, be properly rewarded for your services. We realize that our offer presents you with a most serious decision. We respect your need for careful consideration. We will, should you refuse the offer, bare the expense of your return to America.”
The meeting was over.
Back at his hotel, John sat in his room for a long while thinking about the offer and what he had seen and learned over the past few weeks. He thought of home and the security of the flying school he had established, which his friend and partner Cornelius Coffey was now running. He had been promised an appointment to head up a school of aviation at Tuskegee when and if necessary funds could be found to establish it. He also knew from what he had seen and learned that should war with Italy come, Ethiopia could not win without help. John was homesick and afraid, but he was no coward.
The Man Called Brown Condor Page 15
