The Man Called Brown Condor (11 page)

John hardly remembered the touchdown and taxi to the flight line. The sudden silence after the engine stopped snapped him back to time and place. The flight was over. He was relieved, but his arms and legs felt so heavy, he wasn't sure he could pull himself out of the cockpit. He unfastened his seat belt and removed his helmet. He struggled out of the plane and climbed down from the wing, his clothes stained with sweat and vomit.

Snyder stood before him, calm, neat, dressed in immaculate khaki jodhpurs, white shirt, black tie, leather jacket, and polished brown boots.

“Same time day after tomorrow, Robinson. That is, unless you decide to quit.”

John looked at the instructor. “I been wantin' to fly all my life, and if I can't learn to fly because of you, Mr. Snyder, then I'm gonna learn to fly in spite of you and all them that thinks I'm a joke.”

To John's surprise, he thought he detected a slight smile on Snyder's face.

“You just might do that. Now go get that bucket and rag over there by the hangar and clean off the side of this airplane. You're pretty much a mess, too. If you want to leave by the gate, I'll log you in, save you a little embarrassment. Next time, bring a paper bag with you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Snyder. I won't need no paper bag. I'm gonna be a pilot.”

“Day after tomorrow, Robinson.”

Snyder turned and left John alone with a very messy airplane. It didn't matter. John felt a little shaky but determined to have his dream. He filled the bucket with water, picked up the rag, and began to clean the airplane.

John had intended to catch up on work at his garage after his flying lesson, but he was worn out and still felt a bit queasy. To avoid any friends who might be hanging around to hear about his first flying lesson, he took the back stairs to his room and crawled onto his cot. Staring up at the unpainted ceiling, he couldn't shut down the voices arguing in his mind. One kept telling him that flying wasn't worth feeling so bad, that he couldn't go up again and go through that spinning misery. Somewhere a voice echoed in his mind.
Look at you! You can't even make your supper, much less eat it. They ain't gonna let a nigger learn to fly. Whoever heard of such a thing?
But another voice cried out,
You gonna stick it out! You gonna fly, damn it!
Finally the voices stopped. John drifted off to sleep.

There were other voices that afternoon, voices at the flight line shack. A group of instructors and a few students were sitting around, some filling out log books, others drinking coffee.

“Did you see that nigger cleaning off the side of the plane? Snyder must have put him through the wringer.”

“Hell, that must've been them I saw spinning. I thought they were out of control and might go in.”

“If Snyder put him through it, I don't think we'll see any more nigger students out here. Snyder wasn't too happy when he drew him, you know.”

“I got twenty dollars says the nigger never shows up for another lesson. Anyone want to cover that?”

From a chair over in the corner, Bill Henderson said, “I'll take ten dollars of that bet.”

“Hell, Henderson, from what I hear, it's your fault he made it this far. Anyone want to put another ten bucks on the nigger?”

From the doorway someone replied, “Yeah. I'll cover the other ten.”

Everyone in the room looked toward the door to see Snyder reaching into his hip pocket.

“Here's my ten, Smitty.” He handed the bill to one of the men up front. “Pass it back to him.” Snyder turned to the blackboard to check the day's schedule, then walked out the door toward the flight line for his last student of the day.

Robinson did show up for his next lesson and for every one that followed. Snyder dropped his sarcasm, never used the word “nigger” again, but never let up on the instruction. He continued to shout through the Gosport tube, hammering out the rudiments of airmanship to the intensely determined Robinson. Snyder was hard on his students because he knew flying was no game. It was a serious endeavor that could kill you quick if you got sloppy.

Near the end of the eighth flight hour, an hour that had been spent practicing endless circuits of touch-and-go landings, Snyder wiggled the stick and took over the controls. He landed the plane, turned it around, taxied back to the end of the field, and brought it to a stop just clear of the touchdown area.

The engine was ticking over at idle. John watched Snyder get out of the front cockpit and step down from the plane.
Something must be wrong. What did I do?
John checked the engine instruments. They all looked normal.
It must be something I did. Lord, don't let him ground me.

He was looking down at the controls, trying to hear or feel what was amiss, when he heard the impatient voice of his instructor.

“Well Robinson, what are you waiting for?”

John looked at him with a blank expression on his face.

“You going to sit there all day confusing everyone who wants to land sometime this afternoon, or are you going to fly this thing?”

John's expression changed from blank to startled and comprehending.

“Now remember,” Snyder continued, “do just what you've been doing all day. I want you to take off, come around for one touch-andgo, then on the next circuit make a full-stop landing and taxi back here to pick me up. Don't forget to look for other traffic in the pattern. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll see.” Snyder turned and walked away.

John stared at him for a second and then looked up front at the empty cockpit. His palms were sweaty. Sitting in the airplane alone, he had a flash of self-doubt. He heard the faint echo of his mother's voice,
You got no business fooling 'round with no flying machine.
He thought he heard a voice say,
The white boss man leaving you, boy. This here machine gonna bite you
.

Johnny wiped his hands on the knees of his britches and carefully went though the simple checkout of the engine and controls that had been pounded into habit. Then he craned his head around to check for any landing traffic. There was none. He looked in Snyder's direction, seeking a last official “go ahead.” His instructor was standing near the fence, legs apart, his back to Johnny, relieving himself.

Well, hell then!
John eased the throttle full forward. All his thoughts were now concentrated on making a smooth takeoff. The propeller clawed at the air. The plane rushed at the wind. John had hardly gotten the tail up when the wheels stopped bouncing and the turf quickly dropped away. Without Snyder's weight in the front cockpit, the takeoff roll was much shorter and the plane climbed faster.

For the first time there was no distant voice from the little tube.
God Almighty! You flying this thing Johnny Robinson!
John whooped and shouted, reached out into the slipstream, and beat his hand on the side of the plane as if to urge his winged steed onward. His senses filled with the moment—the sounds, the smells, the rush of air, the beauty of the earth spreading out below him. It was a moment of exhilaration that would stay in his memory forever: his first solo flight.

His landing was not too good but it didn't matter. He had flown solo. Self-confidence is born from such acts. He would work harder now to smooth out his novice technique. He would be a pilot.

John taxied to the corner of the field where Snyder was waiting.

“All right, Robinson, now that we've got that over with, maybe you can settle down and learn how to fly an airplane. If you think the undercarriage won't collapse on us after that last landing, taxi back to the ramp and I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, sir!” John tried to look serious, but he couldn't get the grin off his face. There was something else that happened that day. Back at the line shack, he got more than coffee. He got handshakes and was congratulated all around. The other students no longer made it a point to shun him, always stand apart from him. He was accepted as a fellow student, a fellow flyer.

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.

B
OTH
R
OBINSON AND
C
OFFEY 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 Aviation
¹
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.”