ON A MORNING IN LATE MAY 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.”
He heard Dr. Savory laugh. “You sure beat all, Colonel. You go halfway around the world to fly for an emperor, get shot at and make world headlines, then you come home and get nervous over accepting credit from your people. Everything will be fine. You won’t need a speech. They just want to hear a few words from you and thank you for what you have done. Take your time. I’ll be in the lobby. It’s your night, Colonel Robinson.”
John hung up the phone.
Momma, you ought to see your boy now.
He started to get up, stopped, picked up the phone, and asked to be connected to Western Union. “I want to send a telegram to Mr. and Mrs. C. C. Cobb please, at 1905 Thirty-First Avenue in Gulfport, Mississippi.” The message told his folks that he was fine, that he had several meetings in New York, and would let them know when he could get home and not to worry. Then he shaved, got dressed, and checked himself in the mirror. Well here you go, Johnny, ready or not.
In the car, Dr. Savory explained that he and a group of businessmen were arranging a speaking tour and that John would be paid well from his share of ticket sales to the events. “We’ll raise enough money so you won’t have to worry about starting a new school of aviation back in Chicago.”
John didn’t know what to say. He felt enormous relief. “I’ll be able to pay back my partner. He sent the money to get me home. I owe him five hundred dollars.”
“Yes, we learned about that. Coffey is waiting to meet you in Chicago. You’ll have more than enough to get started again. People are willing to pay to hear you. You’ll see. There’ll be plenty for you after we take out expenses.”
The car pulled up to a side entrance to Rockland Palace. The enormous hall was filled with five thousand enthusiastic supporters. It was the largest room full of people John had ever seen. He was led by Dr. Savory to the head table where he was greeted by Dr. William Jay Schieffelin, chairman of the board of trustees of Tuskegee Institute, and Claude A. Barnett, director of the American Negro Press and leader of a large delegation from Chicago, the city that had adopted John Robinson as its own.
The only one at the table John knew besides Dr. Savory was Claude Barnett. It had been Barnett that had arranged for the first meeting between Robinson and Malaku Bayen that resulted in John volunteering to go to Ethiopia. John was introduced to other civic and business leaders, both black and white, that were also seated at the head table. Several of them made speeches, noting that John had been the commander of the Imperial Ethiopian Air Corps, that he had been Haile Selassie’s personal pilot, flying him to and from the front lines, and that John had been wounded in the air by Italian fighters. The speeches, one reporter would write, “paid tribute to Colonel John Robinson’s great contribution to Negro America.”
I wonder if they gonna leave anything for me to say.
When at last asked to speak, John thanked the audience for giving him such a welcome and told them that he was both humbled and honored. He then gave a brief account of the war, calling the Italian invasion, mass slaughter of Ethiopians, a disgrace to civilization and the League of Nations. He talked about the courage of the Ethiopian soldiers. He said that all but two of the Ethiopian aircraft had been shot down or destroyed on the ground, but did not speak of himself or the role he had played. He described how the government staff and army chiefs had to persuade Haile Selassie not to stay and fight to the last. How they had to convince him to take the Ethiopian government into exile and, by doing so, continue Ethiopia’s long history of unbowed self-rule. He said Ethiopia had not and never would surrender. When he finished, the audience gave him a fifteen-minute standing ovation.
During the ride back to the hotel, Dr. Savory informed John that Claude Barnett would call for him in the morning. “You and Claude are flying to Chicago tomorrow where another reception has been arranged for you.”
What in the world have they gotten me into?
John nodded his head. “Yes, sir. What time should I be ready?”
If John thought nothing could compare with the welcome he received at New York, he was in for a surprise. Barnett and Robinson landed in Chicago on Sunday aboard a brand new Transcontinental and Western Airline (TWA) Douglas DC-3, which at the time was the newest and most modern airliner in the world. When Robinson appeared at the doorway, an enthusiastic crowd of three thousand cheering supporters were there to meet him. Hundreds broke through police lines to surround the plane. Janet Waterford Bragg, Willa Brown, and other female members of the Challenger Air Pilots Association John had founded in 1932 presented him with flowers as he stepped off the plane. Officers of the Eighth Infantry of the Illinois National Guard, members of the United Aid for Ethiopia, dignitaries including Robert Abbott, editor of the Chicago Defender, and former representatives Oscar de Priest and W. T. Brown took part in Chicago’s welcoming party. John saw his old friends, Cornelius Coffey, Harold Hurd, and Grover Nash in the crowd, and although he waved he hardly had time to say hello before he was whisked away to a limousine that led a parade of five hundred automobiles from the airport to the south side of Chicago. It was estimated that as many as twenty thousand people lined the route. From the balcony of the Grand Hotel, John Robinson addressed a crowd of eight thousand people standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the hotel and completely filling the intersection of Fiftieth and South Park Avenue.
The Chicago Defender newspaper stated, “There has never been such a demonstration as was accorded the thirty-one-year-old Chicago aviator who left the United States thirteen months ago and literally covered himself in glory trying to preserve the independence of the last African empire. There are reports that he will be joining the faculty of Tuskegee Institute to teach aviation.” Three thousand newspapers throughout the country carried stories and printed pictures about the Brown Condor’s return.
There was a huge banquet held in his honor similar to the one in New York. Again speeches were given and he was asked to speak. It was just the beginning of a pre-arranged tour that would raise money for John . . . and for the more than a dozen sponsoring organizations.
In spite of all the attention, John retained his quiet, almost shy manner. He smiled often, traveled to cities, and made talks wherever he was asked. He truly felt honored, but he was tired even before the whirlwind speaking engagements began. John found himself saying the same things over and over. His audiences wanted to hear about the war, but he knew, as every man who has seen war knows, they didn’t want the true reality of it, the horror. They wanted to hear a story about a great adventure, the flying, how he escaped the Italian fighters, but these were the things he wanted to talk about the least. His audiences wanted to hear only about the war— it’s what they’d paid to hear—but what John wanted to talk about was the continued need for creating opportunities for blacks in aviation.
The more questions he was asked, the more he realized there is no way to convey to those who have not experience war what it is like.
How could I tell them about the fear; how it feels to be shot at, what it’s like to duck into a cloud and suddenly see a rock wall just in time to avoid it, or not, the relief that comes with surviving another day, the restless nights knowing you would go up the next morning and do it all over again. How, after landing, you put on an act as if there’s nothing to it and laugh at being alive even if you are shaking so much, you need help to get out of the cockpit. How you discover that a simple hot meal cooked over a small fire under a straw roof in the rain is the best tasting meal you can remember. How you react when news comes that another friend hasn’t returned and never will— how at first you hardly acknowledge the message, you act too busy to dwell on it, and maybe you are too busy. It has happened before, it is happening all around, maybe you’re next. And then later, maybe days later, you have to face what it really means, that you will never share the gift of your friend’s unique company, his smile, voice, handshake, the simple treasures of his fellowship. You walk off to be alone, so heavily alone, but only for a moment for there is another flight to make.
How am I supposed to explain all that to all those folks in the audience? How do I tell them that I faced every flight in dreadful anticipation, but that during the flight things happen too fast to think of anything but the flying, that it’s only later that fear catches up and you think about what could have happened but didn’t . . . this time. How do you explain what it’s like to pick up a fallen child from the street while you are running for your life only to find, when the bombing is over and you are safe, that the child has bled to death while you were running with it in your arms? How do you describe the smell of burning flesh?
No, the audience doesn’t really want to hear ’bout that. They couldn’t understand unless they lived it. Maybe that’s why wars keep happening, why some new leader can talk a new generation into war. They don’t forget what the last war was like—they can’t, ’cause they never knew it in the first place.
Colonel Robinson was grateful when the banquets and parades and speeches were over. He had refused no invitation, but he had been uncomfortable. “I’m no hero. I just did what I could to help and somehow survived,” he repeated often.
News John didn’t want to hear filtered in, news about Ethiopia. He knew it would all be bad, and it was. Information arrived in bits and pieces, bits and pieces Italy didn’t want released. Ras Desta was fighting an effective guerrilla war from the hills. The Italians had hunted down his sons and executed them. Three sons of Ras Kassa were executed after surrendering. Mussolini had given Marshall Graziani the title of viceroy of Ethiopia. John learned that prior to Ethiopia, Graziani had been dubbed the Hyena of Libya for his cruelty.
The new viceroy ordered all captured rebels shot and had the head of the Coptic Church executed. Then came news that was even worse. After an attempt on his life, Graziani allowed his soldiers and Libyan askaris to embark on a systematic massacre, setting native houses on fire with gasoline and then shooting the inhabitants as they fled the flames. During the following weeks, it is estimated that thirty thousand Ethiopians, including half the younger educated population, were executed in retaliation.
John tried many times, but was never able to contact or learn the fate of his weisero—the widow he had befriended.
The Brown Condor was welcomed home to national attention in mid-May. An event in July 1936 wiped both John Robinson and the plight of Ethiopia from the pages of newspapers and news broadcasts on national radio. In Spain on the May 10, 1936 the conservative Niceto Alcala Zamora was ousted as president of Spain and replaced by left-wing Manuel Azaña backed by a consortium of socialists and communists to form what was called the Second Republic of Spain. As a result, a group of Nationalist Spanish Army officers, including Emilio Mola, Francisco Franco, Juan Yague, Gonalo Queipo de Llano, and Josè Sanjurjo attempted a coup d’état. The result was the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War on July 17, 1936. The tragedy and suffering of Ethiopia and the exploits of John Charles Robinson were suddenly old news.