The Man Called Brown Condor (29 page)

Robinson knew he was a curiosity among his fellow passengers. He was black and he was returning from “that Italian thing in Africa.” Walking past a group of young Americans one day, he overheard one say, “No joke. That's that nigger aviator, I swear to God.” The comment was followed by laughter. John kept walking.
I reckon some things are never gonna change.

At his assigned table in the second-class dining salon, everyone was stiffly polite. Once in a while, someone would ask his opinion on an issue being discussed, but usually he remained silent.

About mid-Atlantic, John was in his deck chair when two young Germans approached and introduced themselves. They said they were members of the advance party for the Zeppelin Hindenburg and asked if he would join them for a drink. “We would be most interested in hearing about the flying and bombing tactics used by the Italians in Ethiopia,” one of them said.

John stood up. “Both you boys Nazis?”

The Germans looked at each other.

“What would that Hitler fellow think if he found out a couple of his boys could learn a thing or two from a black man? Might ruin that whole Aryan race thing I been reading 'bout.”

One of the Germans replied, “Why be so rude? We are just flyers and offered you a drink to talk about flying.”

“I've been bombed, gassed, and shot at by Italian Fascists for the last year. You boys will have to excuse me if I'm not ready to sit down and drink with German Fascists just yet.”

John turned and walked away. The encounter made him wonder how many Nazis there were among North German Lloyd's crews and how much they learned about France, England, and America when they were in port.

Later that afternoon, an Englishman approached Johnny. “Look here,” he said, “I hope you don't think me rude, but I couldn't help but overhear what you said to those two German fellows this afternoon. You're the American chap that flew Emperor Selassie, aren't you?”

“I was over there.”

“I admire the way you gave those fellows what for. I thought perhaps you might consider having a drink or two with me and a couple of your countrymen. Would you care to join us this evening in the first-class bar? I'm afraid I told them about this afternoon and your German friends, but they won't embarrass you with any questions if you don't want to talk about it. You might be interested that my business in England and their business in America concerns building aircraft.”

John paused a moment to think it over. “To tell the truth, it's been a lonely trip. I think I would like to join you.”

“Right! How about seven o'clock? I'll introduce you around and we'll fetch a drink. Don't worry about a formal dinner in first class. We'll order something in the bar from the grill.”

The Englishman was true to his word. No questions were asked unless John mentioned something about the war first, which he did occasionally during the evening. John learned the two Americans, one from Texas and the other from Massachusetts, worked for a fledgling aircraft company in California named North American Aviation. The Englishman was with the British Air Purchasing Commission. That's all John learned about them. As they talked into the night, they exchanged flying stories, particularly humorous ones. John found he could still laugh and was glad for the company, the refreshments, and the stories.

Robinson slept well that night for the first time in many months. He awoke to find himself feeling fit and hungry. He had finally come to a realization.
God knows where the world is headed, but I'm going home.

O
N A MORNING IN LATE
M
AY 1936, THE SHORELINE OF THE
United States was clearly visible over the bow of
Europa.
It was a bright morning. A cool breeze was blowing off the Atlantic. John showered, shaved, put on a pair of slacks, a shirt, and his leather flying jacket with the Royal Lion of Judah insignia woven in gold thread on the left breast. On deck, he walked forward to watch the New York shoreline slide toward him.

Europa
slowed to take on a harbor pilot and quarantine inspector before passing from Lower Bay through the Narrows. It was not unusual for an eager news reporter or two to ride the pilot boat out to an incoming liner to sniff out a story about some movie star, socialite, or other important passenger and get the scoop ahead of any news hounds waiting at the dock, but on this morning, more than a dozen journalists scrambled aboard behind the pilot and quarantine official. They were all interested in only one passenger. As
Europa
crossed Upper Bay, the gang of reporters thronged into the public rooms and passageways in search of a thirty-one year old black man they called the Brown Condor of Ethiopia. When they didn't find him, they paid several stewards a dollar a piece to scour the ship in search of Colonel John C. Robinson.

Far forward, a solitary figure was leaning against the ship's rail gazing at the towering skyline of Manhattan. He turned to look curiously at a noisy crowd rushing down the deck toward him. Several had cameras while others carried notepads in their hands. John was startled when the group surrounded him.

“Your name Robinson?”

When he admitted he was, individuals vying for attention identified themselves as representatives for various news services. Those with notepads shouted questions at him while the cameramen fired flashbulbs in his face.

By the time
Europa
entered the Hudson River, John had been asked dozens of questions. At first embarrassed by the attention, John reminded himself that this was what had taken him to Ethiopia in the first place: the chance for a black flyer to gain favorable publicity to help open the door to the field of aviation for Negroes. Quiet by nature, he tried his best to answer every question. English composition and public speaking had not been his best subjects at Tuskegee, but this day he silently thanked his teachers. He might not have lost his southern accent completely, but he could speak clearly and correctly.

The interview ended when
Europa
arrived at its berth at the North German Lloyd dock. The reporters, anxious to get ashore to file their stories, were the first in line when the gangway to the passenger terminal was secured John returned to his cabin, gathered his one piece of luggage, and joined the line of passengers waiting to disembark. He was surprised when the ship's purser approached to lead him past the lines of passengers to the gangway. “It seems there is a crowd waiting for you, Colonel Robinson. The demonstration has interrupted the processing of passengers and baggage. We can't handle all our passengers until you and your fans clear the terminal.”

John couldn't imagine what the purser was talking about until he started down the gangway. Someone shouted out his name and a roar erupted from a large crowd waiting just beyond the customs fence. A forest of little American and Ethiopian flags began to wave. A group of young officers and staff members from the Ethiopian embassy burst into a patriotic song barely audible above the cheers.

Thomas B. Terhune, in charge of the customs inspectors, gave orders that Colonel Robinson be cleared as soon as possible. That way, he figured, the hundreds waiting to greet him would clear the area so the rest of the passengers and their baggage could be processed. The customs inspector assigned to Robinson asked a few perfunctory questions, smiled, said, “Glad to see you back, Colonel,” and shook the flyer's hand. It was ironic that the bewildered porter trailing behind John with his suitcase was a recently immigrated Italian.

As John cleared customs, he was met by a distinguished gentleman in a dark suite that introduced himself as Dr. P. M. W. Savory, chairman of New York's United Aid for Ethiopia. When John and Dr. Savory stepped into the large terminal waiting area, the crowd fell silent. “They are waiting for a speech, Colonel,” Savory said. Someone put a microphone in front of Robinson. John was still in shock over the reception, but managed to make a brief, modest talk in which he thanked the crowd for their rousing welcome.

Nothing would do but for John, suitcase and all, to be lifted onto the shoulders of the crowd and carried down to the street level where pandemonium again broke out: people shouting, car and taxi horns blowing. A totally overwhelmed Robinson could do little but smile and wave at the mobs of people around him.

Dr. Savory and several members of his committee helped rescue John from the throng and pushed him into a waiting limousine while the chauffeur retrieved his baggage and put it in the trunk. Safely seated in the black sedan, they pulled away from the curb and left the cheering crowd behind.

John, completely exhausted, sank back into the seat and took a deep breath. “Man, that was scary.”

“Well, Colonel,” Dr. Savory said, “I'm afraid you had better get accustomed to a little of that. You are somewhat of a national hero. For a while, at least, you'll receive a lot of attention. Tonight, for example, there will be a banquet given in your honor.” John looked uneasy. “But right now,” Savory continued, “I know you need a little peace and quiet. We'll drop you off at your hotel. You'll find a room full of messages and invitations, but you can deal with them tomorrow.”

John was embarrassed to admit, “I hope the hotel is not too expensive. I'm a little low on funds.”

What Savory had not yet told John was that a few community and business leaders had already discovered his lack of finances and set about to correct the situation, but now was not the time to discuss business matters.

As the La Salle limousine made its way through New York traffic toward Harlem, a thousand thoughts raced through John's mind.
What am I into now? These people want speeches. How am I gonna get through that? When am I ever gonna get home to see Momma and Daddy Cobb? What in the world am I gonna do for money? I gotta pay Coffey back.
With the excitement of the welcome from the crowds, Dr. Savory, and his committee, it was hard for John to organize any answers. He stopped trying and looked out the window at the busy streets of New York.
Leaving a war behind is gonna take a little gettin' used to.

They drove past the famous Theresa Hotel at 125th Street and 7th Avenue in Harlem. Dr. Savory's group couldn't put John up there. Although there was no official segregation in the North, the Theresa Hotel and many other places were simply closed to blacks.

The La Salle pulled in at a small Harlem apartment hotel. John found he didn't have just a room, but a suite. Dr. Savory noticed the worried look on John's face, told him not to worry about a thing, that the committee would cover all expenses, and that they would pick him up at seven in the evening for the banquet. Robinson, still in shock from the reception he had received, lamely thanked the reception committee and closed the door.

The suite was filled with flowers, baskets of fruit, messages, and bottles of champagne. John stood there for a moment, a little bewildered. Ignoring the iced champagne, he reached for a bottle of bourbon sitting among the gifts. Although John was not much of a drinker, this night he poured a measure into a glass, sat heavily on an overstuffed chair, and took a couple of sips of the dark liquid. After a few minutes, he put down the unfinished drink, undressed, went into the bath, and filled the tub with hot water. He lowered his aching body, bruised from having been carried, pulled, and tossed about by the crowd, into the tub, leaned back, and gratefully let the wonderful steaming water drive tension from his body and confusion from his mind.

That was a damned frightful experience. What in the world am I supposed to do now?

John didn't know it, but the ride was only beginning. The journalists who had scooped the Brown Condor on board
Europa
launched a news blitz about John Robinson. Newspapers throughout the country carried stories about Robinson under such headlines as “All New York Greets Pilot on Arrival;” “Newsmen Get Lowdown on African War from Colonel John C. Robinson;” “Pioneered Aviation in Chicago—Started Air School;” “Colonel Robinson, Brown Condor, Returns Home;” “Gangway for the Brown Condor;” “Crowds Wait on War Hero.”

Radio wasn't about to be outdone by print media. The enormously popular commentator Lowell Thomas started a deluge of radio accounts on Robinson and the part he played in the Italo-Ethiopian War. TransRadio Press, the Mutual Broadcasting System, and the Press Radio News all jumped on Robinson's story. Bulletins were sent out over the Blue Network and the Red Network, the only two nationwide radio networks in the United States at the time.

Somewhere far away, a telephone rang. John stirred, then awoke with a start, not sure where he was. The phone rang again, this time loud, no longer far away, right next to him on the bedside table. The room was dark. Through the open window, he could hear the noise of street traffic below. He fumbled for the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Colonel Robinson?”

“I'm Colonel Robinson.”

“This is Dr. Savory. I'm down in the lobby. We have your car waiting.”

John sat up and found the bedside lamp and switched it on. He was naked except for a towel tucked around his waist.

“I'm just getting dressed, Doctor. To tell you the truth, the phone woke me up. I can be down in twenty minutes. I'm sorry. Will that make us late?”

“Not at all. There's plenty of time. By the way, how do you plan to dress?”

“I bought a dark suit in Paris.”

“I wonder if you would mind wearing your uniform. It's what the people will expect to see. You are their hero. I think they would like to see the colonel in uniform.”

John was embarrassed. “I'm not a hero, Doctor. I just tried to prove a Negro can be a good pilot.” The phone remained silent, Dr. Savory waiting. “If you think wearing my uniform will help, I'm obliged to wear it. It's a little wrinkled.” John paused. “Doctor, I'm a little nervous about tonight. I mean, I don't have a speech or even any notes.”