The Man Called Brown Condor

by Thomas E. Simmons

  Robinson was silent for a long moment. He appreciated the frankness of the emperor’s words, knew he spoke the truth, could not shake thoughts of the dire risks of staying, had considered leaving. He thought of home, of his parents he had seen so seldom since leaving college, thought of the flying school in Chicago that he had left behind, and the good times, the parties, the women, all the things he had taken for granted that had made his life pleasant, even fun.

  Does anyone back home really need me in the way these people need me? Here I command an air corps, a small one that probably can’t last long, but for now it’s mine. Hell, some white folks at airfields back home won’t even sell me gasoline. It’s for damn sure they won’t make me a colonel.

  “Your majesty,” John finally spoke, “I will stand by the offer I accepted. I don’t know how long I can keep the Imperial Air Corps in the air, but I will do my best.”

  Haile Selassie nodded his head. John bowed and walked toward the door.

  “Colonel Robinson?” the emperor asked.

  John turned. “Yes, your majesty?”

  “If you stay, you will be entrusted with great responsibility.”

  John answered, “I am staying, Your Majesty.”

  The emperor replied, “One last thing before you return to your duties. I know you have asked for faster planes. I have been informed that in the event of war, the League of Nations intends to declare an embargo of war material against our nation and Italy. It will hardly make a difference to Italy, but we will greatly suffer from such an embargo. We ordered new fighter planes, but I have been informed England and France canceled the orders. If I can’t obtain military aircraft, perhaps you know of a civilian plane that might suit our purpose. It may just be possible for us to get such a machine.”

  John thought a minute. “Your Majesty, there is a small American firm, Beechcraft, that has just introduced a new, fast, cabin-model. They call it a Stagger Wing. I believe if we can get one or two with the largest engine option, it would make a good courier plane, better and faster than anything we have now.”

  The emperor nodded and Robinson took his leave.

  When John returned to Akaki Airfield just southwest of the capital, he didn’t have to call together his pilots and ground crew. They were waiting for him, waiting for the news he carried. He stood silent a moment looking at the faces gathered around him: French pilots Andre Maillet, Paul Corriger, Gaston Vedel, and Comte Schatzberg; French mechanic Demeaux; Ethiopian pilots Mishka Babitcheff (whose father was Russian), Bahru Kaba, Asfaw Ali, and Tesfaye; and German pilot Baron H. H. von Engel. Language was just one more problem John had to face. He had learned a little French and less Amharic, but only a few phrases in each. He had arranged for an interpreter to be at the airfield at all times to man the telephone and the one radio they had—the one on duty to translate his words into Amharic for those who did not understand English. Paul Corriger did the same for Maillet and Demeaux who were not proficient in English.

  John didn’t waste words. “We’re at war,” he told them. “The Italians are attacking from Eritrea. They may be attacking from Italian Somaliland to the south as well. When Mulu Asha returns, we will know what’s happening there.

  “Now y’all listen good. I’ve done no fighting in the sky, but what I am telling you is what I have been taught by someone who has. He said the plane you don’t see is the one gonna kill you. We got no guns. They do. Our planes are slower than theirs. You see a dot in the sky or even think you do, run. It’ll be an enemy plane. Any of ’em can kill you.

  “From this minute on, all aircraft will be fueled upon landing, parked away from others, and covered under brush or whatever can be found to hide ’em. That goes for wherever you land. The big planes are going to be hard to hide. If you can’t cover them completely, use anything you can find to break up their shape. The only time I want to see a plane in that hangar over there is when it needs work. The Italians gonna bomb every hangar they find.

  “You pilots avoid contact with Italian aircraft any way you can. The emperor doesn’t need you bravely dying for Ethiopia. What he needs is aircraft and pilots. Do everything you can to preserve them. To keep from being seen, fly very low following the contours of the terrain or fly very high. If an Italian pilot sees you, you can bet he will come after you. They will think it great sport to shoot us down. We are so few that Italian hotshots will run all over one another trying to get credit for knocking one of us down. If they see a plane on the ground they will destroy it. We are all probably worth a medal to them. If that scares you, good. It scares me. It ought to make you more careful. You’re gonna have to use every trick you got. You know the country, the terrain, they don’t. Fly down into canyons, hide behind hills and mountains, and duck into clouds. If they shoot at you, zigzag, slide, slip, do anything to throw their aim off. You gotta constantly look for the enemy. Keep your head turning all the time. Never, never fly straight and level for more than a few seconds.

  “Our job is to maintain communication between commanders in the field and headquarters here in the capital. We will deliver ammunition and medical supplies in the transports when we can. We have a hodgepodge of flyable aircraft, not enough pilots, and little to no chance for parts or replacements. Every plane is important. Most of us gonna wind up flying all day, every day. Do all you can to protect both your aircraft and your hide. The Italians can outrun everything we have. We are couriers, not warriors. I don’t want any heroes. The only advantage we have is knowing the terrain, knowing where to hide. Remember that and stay alive. Any questions?”

  There was shocked silence. John dismissed everyone except his second-in-command, Corriger, who had been in charge of flying until John’s appointment.

  “I hope you aren’t angry ’cause the emperor appointed me in command.”

  “Mon ami, I am the one who told you that would happen, remember? My pay is the same. I am glad not to be responsible. With this war, you have an impossible job. Besides, all Frenchmen will be ordered back to France. I’ve told you France doesn’t want Frenchmen fighting Italians. Neither does Germany. Gaston Vedel, Comte Scharzberg, and Baron von Engel are leaving.”2

  “But you won’t go?”

  “I will stay as long as I can. So will Demeaux. Don’t ask me why. I really have no answer.”

  John looked at his French friend. “I do. You are one crazy Frenchman.”

  Corriger shrugged his shoulders and held up both hands.

  John smiled. “Okay. Can you write down everything I just told the group in English, French, and Amharic? Get copies to everyone, especially ground crews and pilots who weren’t here?”

  “Certainly.”

  “When Lieutenant Mulu gets back, tell him he is now a captain and in command of the southern front. Tell him to pick three pilots to work with him. I will take the northern front. Paul, anytime I’m gone, you’re in charge here. Dispatch pilots and planes as ordered by headquarters. Always have at least two planes and crews warmed up and standing by from sunup to dusk. Demeaux’s in charge of maintenance and fuel. And Paul, you are not to fly unless it’s an emergency. Don’t look at me like that. Those are the emperor’s orders, not mine. Even in an emergency, he said you’re not to fly over enemy-held territory. Hell, if you go down over friendly territory he’s worried that his warriors will take you for an Italian and kill you. Any questions?”

  Corriger shook his head.

  Robinson nodded, walked out to the Potez, climbed in, and took off once again for Adowa.

  Exhausted at the end of the first day’s march, the Italians had advanced little more than five miles after crossing the Mareb River. The terrain made for slow going. Although by sundown no shots had been fired, the young Italians were wary. There was an old African saying: “The darker the night, the bolder the lion.” The night could enfold black warriors in its darkness, warriors known to be silent and deadly with cold steel. Pickets were put out and camp guards doubled. The next morning several platoons awoke to find a sin
gle comrade among them with a slit throat. The news traveled fast. Few Italian soldiers slept much after that.

  Because the Ethiopian army was not equal to the task of meeting the Italian invasion head-on, Haile Selassie’s plan was to allow the Italians to advance well inside Ethiopia before engaging them, where they would be dependent on long supply lines. He established his initial battle lines fifty miles from the frontier. This meant the abandonment of Adowa and Aksum. The emperor believed that by doing so the civilians of the towns would be spared. John’s orders were to standby in Adowa as long as possible in order to collect as much information about the Italian advance as could be gathered by Ethiopian scouts. Robinson was then to fly the information to headquarters in Addis Ababa.

  In Adowa, Robinson reasoned that the rugged terrain coupled with hit-and-run raids by small Ethiopian bands would delay the enemy’s advanced units from reaching the town at least three or four full days. John knew the Italians had been informed that Adowa was an undefended, open city. He expected the enemy to march in to occupy the town without shelling it, but in anticipation of the Italians scouting Adowa from the air, he hid his plane under brush a safe distance from the edge of town. That aircraft was the only available means of rapidly transmitting vital information to the capital. Robinson planned to stay in town on the fourth of October and fly out at dawn on the fifth. He figured that would give enough time for runners to bring in initial information on the Italian advance—what units were engaged, their order of march, weapons and equipment, rate of advance, and other intelligence that would help Selassie, his war cabinet, and chieftains plan tactical strategy.

  On October 4, Ras Seyoum Mangasha withdrew his small raiding force after making a lightning hit-and-run attack on an Italian scouting force. He and his men took shelter in a cave on a mountainside near Maryam Shoaitu. While having breakfast at first light on the morning of the fifth, Ras Mangasha heard a sound he had never heard before. He ran to the mouth of his hideout. The strange noise was the drone of fifty-four aircraft engines reverberating across the valley and off the cave walls. What he saw was eighteen tri-motor aircraft heading for Adowa from Eritrea. Having rarely seen an airplane in the Ethiopian sky, he was awed by the sight.

  John had enlisted the aid of three scribes and established a message center in a building in Adowa used as a court of law. All night, runners had streamed in with reports from various scouting parties shadowing the Italian advance. The scribes recorded on paper every runner’s verbal report. Most able-bodied men had left Adowa when they received the emperor’s call to arms. Except for John, the scribes, and a few men guarding the Potez and cache of gasoline, all that remained in the town were women, children, and old men.

  At the first dim light of dawn, Robinson was stuffing the reports into a leather courier pouch in preparation to fly them to Addis Ababa when he heard the sound of approaching aircraft. The first bomb explosion startled him, the second blew down the door to the street and knocked him off his feet. At first stunned, he recovered enough to realize what was happening. He grabbed the leather message pouch and ran into the street just as a Caproni tri-motor flew overhead. Each of the three six-plane squadrons came in succession to drop their bombs on a helpless town of little or no military value. The civilians had never witnessed squadrons of multi-engine aircraft roaring above their heads. They were terrified by the deafening staccato of exploding bombs.

  Roofs collapsed. Walls tumbled into streets as the bombs were unleashed across the town. Lethal shrapnel, debris, and shards of glass mutilated bodies. The screams from the wounded and dying were more unbearable to John than the deafening explosions as he stood in the shattered doorway of the message center clutching the leather pouch with both hands. Blood streamed unnoticed from a cut on his cheek. His mind refused to work.

  What seemed minutes to John was in reality a matter of seconds before rational thought returned in the midst of chaos. His job was to get the reports he had collected to Addis Ababa. As the noise of the Italian planes faded, Robinson began to make his way through wreckage-strewn streets toward the field at the edge of town where he hoped he would find the Potez in one piece.

  The streets were filled with confused and frightened old men, screaming women, and terrified children, some walking, some standing dazed, many staggering in all directions through clouds of smoke and dust. The wounded, the dying, and the dead were everywhere. John stumbled and fell upon what he discovered to his horror was only half of what had been a human being. Getting to his feet, he saw a crying, blood-splattered baby lying beside a mutilated body. He lifted the child and passed it to a dazed woman sitting in a nearby doorway. Without looking at John or the child, she clutched the baby to her and began moaning and rocking back and forth. He continued toward his plane as the last of the Italian bombers disappeared northward toward Eritrea.

  The Potez sat covered with brush as he had left it. Several white-clad, elderly warriors ran from hiding to help John clear the brush away from the plane. They had been guarding the cache of gasoline.

  “Thank you” was one of the few phrases of Amharic that Robinson had learned. The men nodded, stepped away, picked up their spears, and walked solemnly toward the smoldering town.

  God help them! These people are going to pit spears, swords, flesh, and courage—all they have—against machine guns, planes, tanks, and artillery.

  John started the Potez’s engine, checked the gauges, swung the plane around checking the sky for enemies, turned into the wind, and pushed the throttle forward to the stop. The Potez withstood the bone-shaking abuse of the stone-rough field as it struggled to reach flying speed before lifting at last into smooth air lightly smeared with wisps of drifting smoke from the destroyed town.

  Upon landing at the capital, Robinson spoke to no one except the driver of the waiting car. “The palace, fast!”

  Driven directly to the palace, he was immediately ushered into the War Room. Emperor Selassie and his war cabinet stood around a huge table covered with maps. John stood awkwardly by the door a moment, the leather pouch full of reports held close to his chest with both hands. Everyone in the room turned to stare at him in silence. He diverted his eyes down for a moment, and for the first time he was aware of his appearance. He was covered in dust and dirt, his uniform and hands stained with blood, that of the dismembered torso he had fallen over and his own blood from the cut across his cheek. The wound had bled a line down the side of his face and throat, spilled over his shirt collar, and disappeared into his jacket. What those in the room saw was a mass of clotted blood and dirt stuck to the lower right quarter of his face. Fortunately, the wound looked worse than it would turn out to be.

  After a moment, the royal interpreter spoke. “His Majesty will hear your report, Colonel Robinson.”

  John handed over his courier pouch before describing in detail the aerial attack he had witnessed. He left out nothing: the description of the bombers, the terrified civilians, the destruction and death, everything he could remember. When he finished, there was dead silence in the room.

  For a moment Selassie looked at John with deep sadness in his eyes. Seconds later, in fiery rage, the emperor slammed his fist on the table.

  “In good faith we made treaties and agreements with Italy according to international protocol. They have not only violated every agreement they made with us, but the very precepts upon which the League of Nations was founded. Mussolini hasn’t even bothered declaring war on us. He has slaughtered our people in Adowa when I deliberately declared it an undefended open city. The Italians could have marched in without firing a shot or dropping a single bomb. By their cowardly attack on women and children they have revealed their hand. In this undeclared and unjustified war, they aim to kill our people whether we fight or not. They are the barbarians! We will declare war! We will fight them until we can fight no longer.”

  The telephone rang. An aid picked up, listened for a moment, then hung up.

  “Your Majesty, Captain Mulu Asha has jus
t landed. The Italians have not moved from their line on our southern border with Italian Somaliland. The captain is on his way here to give a full report.”

  The emperor thanked John and told him to get some rest, that he would receive new orders soon.

  By the time Robinson reached his hotel, he hardly had enough strength left to walk down the hall to his room. He was tired, lonely, and frightened. Safe for the moment, he could not clear his mind of the horrific images he had seen. Starkly aware that war had only just begun, John knew he had been lucky to find his aircraft unscathed and escaped. He wondered if he would be so lucky the next time. He was shaking, perhaps from lack of sleep and fatigue, perhaps from shock.

  When he opened the door he was surprised to find his room spotlessly clean. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table by the couch. He was even more surprised when the door to his bath opened and he found himself staring at an equally surprised, slim, young woman with beautiful almond eyes. She wore a traditional white kamis, a long loose dress. It had a gold chain around the waist. She returned his gaze with equal questioning. She looked toward the door, then back at John. Her perplexed expression slowly turned to a shy smile.

  “Please,” she said and held out her hand.

  “Who are you?” John managed to ask.

  “Please,” she repeated, as she was often to do. It was the only word of English she knew. She stepped forward, took John’s hand, and led him to the bath, which was filled with hot, steaming water. John stood mute, wondering if the girl could feel him shaking inside. Before he could decide what he should do, he found himself naked, sitting in a tub of hot water with the girl kneeling beside the tub, bathing his filthy, aching body. He was too tired to be embarrassed and too in need of company to ask questions. The girl carefully cleaned his face and frowned at the cut across his cheek. The bleeding had stopped.