BY LATE 1935, IT WAS CLEAR THAT NOT A SINGLE MEMBER of the League of Nations would move to stop the invasion of Ethiopia and the slaughter of its people. Though no governing body of any nation would act to aid Ethiopia, there were demonstrations of support by citizens of many countries. In England, three thousand young men offered to volunteer to fight for Ethiopia. In America, there was a rally of ten thousand people, both black and white, at Madison Square Garden. Blacks in many communities of the United States staged boycotts of Italian-owned businesses. In Cairo, Egypt, the faithful prayed to Allah to spare Ethiopia.
Some support came unexpectedly. In Fascist Berlin, a film entitled Ethiopia 1935 carried an anti-Italian theme. Germany secretly wanted the Ethiopian war to continue. It would keep Italy from interfering with Hitler’s plan to annex Austria, an ally of Italy. Toward that goal, Germany clandestinely supplied thousands of Mauser rifles and ammunition to Ethiopia (likely smuggled across the border from Anglo-Egyptian Sudan).
There were statesmen throughout the west who intuitively realized the Fascist invasion of Ethiopia foreshadowed universal conflict, yet all met passive resistance that prevented any organized effective means of stopping Mussolini’s aggression. France did the most to hinder Ethiopia by barring shipment of any war materials through their colonial port of Djibouti. They didn’t want to antagonize their Fascist neighbor Italy. As long as Italy was bogged down in Africa, it wouldn’t be a threat to France.
As early as October 1935, Haile Selassie acknowledged that his loyal followers had but two choices. They could either submit to becoming an Italian colony after more than two thousand years of self-rule or continue to resist Fascist aggression alone with no hope of aid. It was an agonizing choice. The battle of Tembien had shown the terrible price in loss of lives continued resistance would cost. His council of chiefs, supported by the fierce pride of the people, left him but one choice: to lead his people as long as they had the will to defend their land.
Haile Selassie was not blind to what lay ahead for his nation. The only hope was that Ethiopia could buy time, time in which the Western world might say “enough” and pressure Italy to cease its imperial brutality against a people that never threatened it or meant it harm.
To boost his warriors’ morale, Selassie determined that he should be seen among them at the front. It was a decision that placed a heavy burden on John Robinson of safeguarding the life of the emperor of Ethiopia while in the air.
American newspapers carried a small feature among the articles concerning the Italian-Ethiopian war stating, “Piloted by John C. Robinson, a Negro from Chicago, Emperor Haile Selassie made his first plane flight in several years to inspect Ethiopian defenses.” It was the first of many flights the emperor would take, his life dependent upon the flying skills of a black aviator from Mississippi.
A civilian Beechcraft plane finally arrived in Addis Ababa. The wings, fuselage, engine, and other various parts were carefully removed from their shipping crates and assembled by Corriger, Demeaux, and Robinson. When finished, they all thought it was the most beautiful aircraft they had ever seen. (To this day, many pilots would agree.) It was a cabin biplane called a Staggerwing because its wings were inversely staggered, the lower wing set slightly ahead of the upper wing. The fuselage tapered smoothly from the streamlined engine cowling over the cabin gracefully back to the tail. It had clean lines and an added feature which helped increase its speed: retractable landing gear. It also was equipped with the latest gyro-driven instruments, which allowed it to be flown safely in the clouds and at night without outside references. The plane was officially called the Beechcraft B17 and had been ordered with a 420-horsepower Wright engine. The interior was finished in leather and could carry up to five people including the pilot. As soon as it was assembled, it was painted the same green color used on the other Ethiopian aircraft and decorated with the Ethiopian roundel as well as the symbolic insignia the Lion of Judah, in deference to the fact that it was the emperor’s personal plane.
John immediately began test-flying the Beechcraft and found it a delight to fly. It could perform decent aerobatics, and what’s more it could reach a speed of 200 miles per hour in comparison to the old Potez which could barely make 130 miles per hour. John’s confidence in the Beechcraft grew with every test flight. With this plane I can keep the emperor safe.
Both John and Mulu Asha were flying reconnaissance and courier missions daily under constant danger from attack by the aircraft of the Regia Aeronautica. The loss of pilots and planes had only served to increase their flying to the point of exhaustion. In a letter to his friend and former student, Harold Hurd, John told of flying conditions at the front:
The only thing I can say for myself is that I am trying to do my best in whatever mission or duty I have. We are having a hard fight over here with our limited amount of modern war equipment. Every man, woman, and child is doing their part to help, and I am sure with God’s help and our courage we will come out okay in the end. Sometimes I have to fly almost constantly. I went two weeks without pulling my boots off during what little time I have to sleep. This is when I am along the northern front. I am glad to do my part, but these conditions might help to finish my flying career . . .
Mulu Asha brought back reports from the southern front indicating increased activity. During the early stages of the conflict, the Italians had established a defensive line running from the Kenyan border to British Somaliland parallel with the border of Italian Somaliland. The defensive role did not please an ambitious Italian commander, chaffed at the fact that on the northern front, Badoglio, having been given ten divisions, was getting all the “glory” while he had been given but one division and ordered to sit. His name was General Rodolfo Graziani.
The general finally had enough of doing nothing. He set out to change his defensive role. He expanded port facilities at Mogadishu and opened new supply roads. He motorized his division by buying hundreds of motor vehicles supplied mainly by American manufactures via British automobile dealers in Mombasa and Dar es Salaam. He then communicated his desire for action to Mussolini who, because of successes on the northern front, was at last willing to listen.
While all this was taking place, Mulu brought promising reports from the southern front. The two Ethiopian armies of the south had very different leaders than those of the north. One army was under the command of Ras Desta Damtu, the other under Ras Nasibu, who had traveled extensively abroad. Both were young, progressive, and loyal. There was also Ethiopia’s only female general, Weizero Asegedech, who led the thirty thousand warriors of her late grandfather, Ras Tassama. Her warriors were armed with modern rifles and machine guns she had bought for them herself.
With the aid of an old but knowledgeable Turkish officer named Mehmet Wahib Pasha, perhaps better known as Wahib Pasha, the troops of the southern armies were better trained and equipped than those of the north. The officer, who had been exiled by Turkey’s dictator Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, insisted on wearing his Ottoman fez and gray-green uniform from the Great War. He had commanded Turkish troops at Gallipoli after which he was given command of the Turkish 2nd Army. It was said that he came to the aid of Ethiopia because he absolutely loathed Mussolini.
In the early battles, the Ethiopians on the southern front held their own against Italian probes, knocking out many of their light tanks upon which the Italian infantry depended for supporting fire, but the Ethiopians found they could not attack in force. They were under constant surveillance by Graziani’s reconnaissance aircraft and if caught on the move would be subjected to incessant bombing and strafing by the Regia Aeronautica.
Increasingly, Mulu’s reports grew less encouraging. The Ethiopians were faltering under constant air attacks. The reports also indicated the effects that poor rations, malaria, and dysentery had on the Ethiopian troops. The only good news was that deep behind the southern front, the fortifications of the cities of Harar and Ogaden, all organized by Wahib Pasha, were complete and manned by Ras Nasibu’s army of thirty thousand.
On the first day of January 1936, John, Paul, and Mulu were all together in Addis Ababa for the first time in a month. In celebration, they managed to gather the fixings for a small feast at a time when rations were becoming lean in the capital that was now subject to occasional bombing raids. A lamb was prepared for dinner. Corriger supplied choice French wine from his seemingly endless supply.
The three sat on cushions around a low table, talking not of war but of the good times they had spent together before the fighting began. They ate, drank, and spoke of the beauty of the landscape to which they had introduced John during his early days of Ethiopian flying.
“It’s so different from what I expected,” John admitted. “I thought it would be all desert, brown and rocky. A lot of it is raw and primitive, but I’ve seen the green valleys, snowcapped mountains, and rivers like the Omo cutting its way through jungle on its way to Kenya. It’s beautiful. I wish my momma could fly with me to Lake Tana and follow the Blue Nile, see the waterfalls and rainbows and watch the sun light up the clouds that rest on the mountaintops.”
“I believe, mon ami,” replied Corriger, “that you have the romantic soul of a Frenchman.”
“What I believe is that you two have been deep into French wine,” said Mulu, with a smile. “Which reminds me, Corriger, I hope you have your wine cellar well hidden so the Italians won’t find it.”
“Hell,” said John, “if you haven’t found it with me sending him off on errands just so you can look for it, the Italians damn well won’t find it.”
“So that is what you two do when Paul Corriger is away. You are untrustworthy friends and terrible flyers, but this is war. What can one expect? So! I will share my secret even though you are undeserving. I get the wine from a British friend, Gerald Burgoyne, in charge of transporting medical supplies. He somehow manages to get me a case of French wine now and then mixed in with medical supplies shipped up from Djibouti.”
“Oh, hell.”
“What, John?”
“You didn’t hear? Burgoyne was killed up north in an Italian bombing. The damn Italians are bombing and gassing field hospitals and ambulance planes. Count Rosen’s plane, painted white with huge red crosses on the wings, was destroyed on the ground last week at Quoram. I know damn well their pilots can see the red crosses in the centers of the big white circles painted on hospital tents and air ambulances. That’s one target they fly low over ’cause they know they are all unarmed.”
Paul spoke up. “Tonight we agreed not to speak of such things. Our bellies are full, the wine is from another and better year, and we are together for the moment. Let’s drink to that.”
On the southern border near Kenya where the Ganale Doria River crosses into Italian Somaliland, General Graziani had assembled supplies and strengthened his one Italian division by bringing up several divisions of Eritrean Askaris. At dawn on January 12, Graziani’s artillery opened fire on the Ethiopians, beginning a battle that would become known as the Massacre of Ganale Doria.
Mulu Asha had landed behind a quiet section of the Ethiopian line at sundown the day before. He was at the message center to pick up reports to deliver to Addis Ababa when Graziani’s artillery opened the battle. He took the dispatch case and ran to his plane hidden under brush just off a tiny cleared landing strip. He had managed to get the plane uncovered when the first wave of Marchetti SM 81 tri-motor bombers roared overhead. The tops of their wings were painted in large red sunburst patterns designed to make them easier for search and rescue planes to spot should any be forced down in the semi-desert terrain. Mulu and his helpers rushed for cover. As they ran, a bomb exploded fifty yards ahead of them. Mulu did not remember hearing the blast. When he awoke, the cool air of dawn had been replaced by midmorning heat. Sounds of fighting and rifle fire drifted faintly from a distance.
Something was wrong. He fought nausea as his mind cruelly regained consciousness. He felt pain, pain he had never felt before. His left eye was not working. His face felt like it was on fire. His throat and lungs were burning. He could not get enough air. Trying to get up, he crawled over the body of one of his ground crewmen before staggering to his feet. Through his right eye he saw the smoldering wreck of his plane. Mulu tore at his canteen and poured water down his burning throat. Then he tried to wash a foul-smelling liquid from his face and arms.
“What’s happening?” he asked hoarsely of a passing Ethiopian rifleman.
“Move. We have order to move back. We can’t hold. The yellow rain,” he said by way of explanation. The rifleman looked at Mulu a moment. “Take that and move.” He pointed Mulu to the canteen of the dead crewman, and then he joined the retreating riflemen.
Mulu took the canteen and followed them.
Graziani had given the Regia Aeronautica special orders that morning. The Marchetti SM 81 tri-motor bombers carried no ordinary bombs. The ones dropped that morning were filled with mustard gas, which is not a gas at all but a sticky liquid aspirated into droplets small enough to be breathed, or sometimes, depending on the device used, thrown out in blobs erupting from imperfectly exploding casings. In addition to delivering mustard gas in bombs and artillery shells, numbers of Italian planes, equipped with spray booms and pumps, laid down “yellow rain.” The spray planes flew in-trail so that a continuous “rain” of mustard gas would saturate a targeted enemy position or troops on the move. The Ethiopians did not understand the “yellow rain” and were terrified by it. The Italians gassed villages of unarmed civilians as part of their new “terror” strategy.
Mustard gas on contact blisters human skin. If breathed in, it blisters the lungs. Wherever it touches skin, it burns horribly. If the lungs are severely coated, pulmonary edema follows causing death by asphyxiation. The victim literally drowns as the lungs fill up with liquid. Agonizing death comes sometimes in hours, sometimes in days. It is a horrible way to die.
Ethiopia had no gas masks when gas was first used on the northern front. They appealed to the International Red Cross Committee (ICRC) in Geneva to send gas masks. Italy was trying to hide the fact that they were using gas. Under Italian, French, and Swiss influence, the members of the ICRC refused to send the masks on the basis that the appeal for gas masks by Ethiopia “did not state for what purpose they intended to use them.” If the ICRC approved the shipment of gas masks, they would have to explain to the media why they were doing so. Italy did not want such an explanation given; it would be embarrassing.
The wife of the British consul in Addis Ababa, Lady Barton, organized the manufacture of gauze bandages impregnated with soda. Ethiopian soldiers wrapped them over their mouths and noses. Though primitive, breathing through soda gauze during gas attacks helped. When they ran out of the soda bandages, the troops were told to tear off pieces of their uniforms or shammas, urinate on them, and breath through them during attacks to help neutralize the gas. It was all they had.
Using motorized columns, the Italians on the southern front outflanked the retreating Ethiopians. They rounded up and shot dispersed remnants of Ras Desta’s army. Others fleeing on foot across burning desert sand were often strafed by Italian planes. The few wells that lay along the path of retreat were poisoned by Graziani’s mechanized scouts.
On the second day, Mulu ran out of water, as did all the retreating Ethiopians. Most had no food. Those who could keep walking did so. Those who could not were left behind.
Mulu had been splashed by mustard gas. His arms and face were masses of raw blisters. His blind left eye had become infected. Pink, foamy spume leaked from his nose and lips. As he staggered on, he breathed with audible moans. Whether in the blazing heat of day or cool of night, there was no relief from pain. Only raw determination kept him going.
On the fourth day, he was part of a large group that had managed to reach the Genale Doria River—the cool, blessed river. Crazed with pain, Mulu attempted to run toward the river. He stumbled and fell. Fighting for breath, he staggered up and tried to run again, but his damaged lungs would not support such effort. Struggling, stumbling, falling, he finally crawled to the river’s edge. The water waited there for him just down the slope of the riverbank.
Machine gunfire erupted from across the river. To Mulu’s left and right, cries rang out all along the bank. Mulu crawled on, the pain in his eye unbearable. Almost to the water’s edge, Mulu felt a sharp pain tear through him. Pain! He was pain. His legs were no longer working. He pulled himself along with his raw, blistered hands until he could lower his face into the muddy, bloody river. He dropped his head, took a single sip. For one brief moment he felt blessed cool water soothe his poor face. Then . . .
Mulu Asha was dead. They were all dead, all of them.
Italian mechanized scouts, guided by air reconnaissance, had reached the river first. Setting up their machine guns on the far bank, they waited. They knew what was left of Desta’s army was staggering, thirst-crazed to the river.
Three young Italian soldiers manning one of the water-cooled machine guns saw the dark-skinned hoard crest over the far bank like stampeding animals. Down poured the first wave to prostrate themselves at water’s edge, row upon row waiting their turn behind, bodies so densely pressed together not a grain of earth lay uncovered.
On command, the young Italians opened fire. One of them fired the gun, swinging the barrel back and forth, the trigger pressed. The second one fed the ammunition belt into the breach, his hands growing raw from fast-moving cartridges coursing over his fingers. The third boy ran back and forth from their supply point carrying boxes of belted ammunition, lest they run out. It seemed to them it took forever before they were given the order of cease-fire.
Steam rose from the overheated barrel of the water-cooled machine gun. There was not a sound save the ringing in their ears. The three babyfaced young Italian soldiers sat stunned. From the other side . . . not a cry, not a moan, silence. The far riverbank was covered with bodies piled on bodies, hundreds of them, many face down in water stained red by rivulets of blood streaming into the sluggish current.
The road to Neghelli, capital of the southern Galla Borana district, now lay open to General Graziani. Just to make sure, he ordered forty tons of bombs to be dropped on the town. On January 20, 1936, Graziani occupied Neghelli for the glory of Fascist Rome.