The Man Called Brown Condor (15 page)

The glow from the bright lights of New York followed the sun beyond the horizon, leaving the ship in darkness to slice its way cleanly through the ocean. John left the liner's rail and walked to his cabin.

Dressed formally in black tie, John Robinson garnered curious glances as he followed a waiter across the lavishly decorated dining salon to his assigned table. Conversation paused as he was seated. He smiled and nodded to those at the table. A few nodded in return, but when conversation resumed, he was ignored. Nervous about proper dining etiquette, he carefully spread his napkin in his lap and followed the silverware selections and manners of his fellow diners as he ate his meal in silence. It was the first five-course dinner he had ever experienced. He spoke only once, excusing himself from the table.

By lunch the next day, some at his table were more friendly, intrigued by rumors that originated, it was said, with the ship's purser, and before him the equally curious black baggage handlers in New York. Who was the mysterious black passenger in first class? Word spread that he was a pilot and soldier of fortune. To his embarrassment, John became somewhat of a celebrity to many fellow passengers. There were also some aboard who made no secret of their disgust at booking expensive first-class passage only to find “a damn Chicago nigger” enjoying the same privileges. A group of German businessmen did not miss the opportunity to discuss the Nazi theory of a superior race when they were sure Robinson could not help but overhear.

Most of the first-class passengers were American vacationers of old money, the class that is usually hurt least by monetary Depression, and which generally is the last to change lifestyles. Among them was a former pilot who had flown with the 94th Aero Squadron in the Great War. He approached John on the second afternoon of the crossing.

“Robinson, I hear you've done a little flying. Is that true?”

“That's right. I've done a little.”

“Heard you're from Chicago, but you don't sound like a native of the Windy City.”

“I was raised on the Mississippi coast. You don't sound like a Northerner yourself, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“No. I'm from the Carolina coast. Charleston. Is it true you are headed for Ethiopia and the mess that's fixin' to happen over there?”

“I've accepted their invitation. I still hope the mess, as you put it, can be avoided.”

“I made the same mistake in 1917. I suppose you've been told you're crazy enough times already. Why don't you and I go to the bar and talk about flying. I'm already damn tired of bridge, my children are driving me crazy, and my wife stays seasick in her cabin, or so she tells me. I haven't done any flying for a while. I'm forty-one and am constantly reminded that I should be wiser at my age, but I miss it.”

The two men spent much of the remainder of the cruise walking the decks or sharing a table at the bar while exchanging flying stories. To most passengers, especially Northern Americans, their apparent ease with one another seemed ironic, a white Southerner and a Negro. It was not strange to either man. In the segregated society in which they both grew up, such relationships were often black employee to white employer, the former subservient, the latter patronizing. Nonetheless, both John and the Carolinian were at ease with one another in a way peculiar to the South, a way John had not found prevalent in the Northern urban centers of Detroit and Chicago.

The Carolinian said he had first been assigned to fly a slow, lumbering observation plane that seemed to be the prey of every German flyer.

“I spent most of the war running like crazy. I learned to love the clouds. If you get in trouble in Ethiopia, clouds may be your best bet. If I found myself with Germans all around, I flew flat-out crazy, tried everything I knew, made up stuff, all the time running for the clouds if there were any. Once inside a cloud, I couldn't tell up from down, but the pursuit ships were afraid to follow, afraid of a midair collision with me or each other. In clouds, they couldn't tell up from down either. Even if they tried, they couldn't find me. Hell, I couldn't find me till I broke out the other side or spun out the bottom. Many a time I would deliberately go into a spin hoping I came out the bottom with enough altitude to pull out. I stayed alive and got my observer and the information through all but once. I crash-landed just behind my own lines, but my observer was already dead, shot right through the heart. I finally got my wish, got assigned to a pursuit squadron. I thought that would be great after flying a slow observation craft, but hell, I had more close calls than before. It really wasn't much fun, John, the war I mean, but I miss the flying.”

Robinson took the Great War flyer's knowledge and instruction in aerial combat seriously. He filled a journal with notes and sketches of maneuvers the slow-talking Carolinian patiently explained to him. John had taken instruction in basic aerobatics, loops, rolls, Cuban-eights and the like, but he had never thought of them in terms of evasive or aggressive tactics. He did now.

John enjoyed the man's company, the only company he had on the voyage. In turn, his new acquaintance from South Carolina seemed to enjoy the chance to talk about the flying he missed and take it upon himself to do all he could to improve Robinson's chances at survival in a conflict he believed, from what he had read in recent newspapers, was sure to come.

The two did not limit their conversations to serious matters. Both shared funny stories about their flying. The Carolinian told of landing an old Jenny one day with a whole line of women's laundry tangled in his undercarriage and streaming out behind—bloomers, nightgowns, and other unmentionables. He told John, “I had buzzed my girlfriend's place right between the back porch and the barn. I caught plenty of hell from my instructor, but not near as much as I caught from the mother of a girl who quickly became my ex-girlfriend.”

The greatest laugh they had together was when John told of the Decatur Country Club and the destruction of Janet Bragg's OX-5 biplane. The Carolinian laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.

“It wasn't very funny at the time, I tell you.” John laughed. “No, sir! It was not funny at all. It did no good for Coffey and I to try and blame each other. We thought that woman was going to kill us both. It took us a year and a half to pay for the plane. ”

John knew he needed a little laughter. His pilot friend was the only fellow passenger who spoke more than a few words to him. Most ignored his presence. Some shunned him altogether.

I guess these white folks never saw a black man in first class, at least one who wasn't waitin' tables, making beds, or cleanin' up after 'em.

Late at night in the dark of his cabin, self-doubt crept in to taunt John. The faintly detectable rhythm of the ship's engines reminded him of the ever-increasing miles separating him from home. Once, when the liner was in the middle of the ocean, he followed the promenade deck all the way aft to stand at the stern and watch the ship's frothy wake stretch into the distance and fade away.

It was a grand ship, but for the most part, a lonely voyage for Robinson.

T
HE SHIP APPROACHED THE
S
TRAIT OF
G
IBRALTAR EARLY IN THE
morning. The great promontories rising from Spain to the north and Morocco to the south guard the narrow, eight-mile-wide strait separating the Atlantic Ocean from the Mediterranean Sea and Europe from Africa. In antiquity, the highest pinnacles on each side were called the Pillars of Hercules. John joined a multitude of early risers crowding the ship's rails to view the narrow passage. From the port side of the ship, John could see Spain and the famous Rock of Gibraltar. He quickly crossed to the starboard side to get his first view of Africa: Morocco. His intermediate destination, Marseilles, France, was still some thirty-four hours away. The ship turned away from Morocco and Algeria to set a course along Spain's Mediterranean coast. In darkness it passed between the island of Majorca and the Spanish mainland. The historic cities of Valencia and Barcelona and the Pyrenees Mountains forming the border with France slipped past, unseen by the sleeping passengers. In the morning they docked at Marseilles. The ship and most of its first-class passengers would continue on the next day for a grand Mediterranean cruise, but not John Robinson.

At the base of the gangway, a well-dressed black man wearing western clothes held a sign with the name Mr. John Robinson on it. He was an Ethiopian envoy whose job was to meet John and escort him to his hotel overlooking the old harbor. He gave Robinson a ticket and travel papers for the ship
Lamoriciere,
which he said would leave Marseilles the day after tomorrow and take Robinson to the French Somaliland port of Djibouti.

“Mr. Robinson,” the man said, without giving his name, “we think it would be better if you did not broadcast your destination here in this city. Marseilles has a long history as a center of smuggling and intrigue. Your purpose and destination are best left undeclared.”

John had not thought of his mission in terms of international intrigue, but the envoy suggested, quite seriously, that there were some who might find it
convenient
if certain
experts
traveling to aid Ethiopia did not reach their destination. He did not mention Italian Fascists, but John understood he had just been given a warning. After asking if John needed anything further, the envoy excused himself and left John in his hotel room to ponder his new international status.

Robinson did not take the warning too seriously, but the next morning he decided to join an organized group to see the sights rather than wander about on his own. The hotel concierge arranged for him to join a small tour group. John laughed at himself.
Safety in numbers is what they say.
The hotel concierge nor anyone else made anything of the fact that he was black.

Marseilles was France's gateway to North Africa and the Orient beyond. As such it was a city where one could see a colorful mix of people: French, Spanish, English, German, Italian, Indians, Turks, Chinese, black Africans, and, most of all, Arabs. Marseilles was less French than it was an exotic montage of humanity. Though large, it was not a pretty city. Still, there were structures to impress a black child who had grown up in Mississippi; the Hotel de Ville and the old fortresses of Saint Jean and Saint Nicholas still guarded the original ancient harbor. Too small and shallow for modern ships, it was now used by fishing boats and yachts. Robinson's group visited the Palais Longchamps with its dramatic fountains and colonnade, and high on a windy bluff overlooking the city and blue Mediterranean, the Basilique Notre Dame de La Garde. In the afternoon, John joined a half dozen tourists with a guide to explore the Quartier Panier, the old town that climbed the hills overlooking the old harbor. They were warned to be watchful of pickpockets as they entered the warren of narrow, dark, climbing, twisting streets, some so steep they were made of stone steps. Old houses and shops lined the streets, many with colorful awnings. John was glad to have a guide; one could easily get lost. If exploring alone, he would be an easy target if there really was anyone interested in doing him harm. (During World War II, the Germans raised most of the Panier to disable the confusing warren as a hiding place for the French Underground.)

Back at his hotel, John asked the concierge for recommendations for dinner. “Monsieur, Marseilles is famous for its bouillabaisse,” he replied, as if everyone, even a black tourist, should know about Marseilles bouillabaisse.

John, not easily intimidated, asked what that was.

The concierge replied as if the whole of France had been slighted. “It is a marvelous seafood soup of course, Monsieur.” He directed “Monsieur Robinson” to “the best restaurant in the city.” And while John found the famous bouillabaisse tasty, it was expensive—and not as good as his mother's seafood gumbo.

After a day spent walking for miles, much of it uphill, while enduring warm breezes sweeping across the Mediterranean from the deserts of North Africa, Robinson was bone-tired. He turned in early.
Another ship tomorrow, Johnny boy. What have you gotten yourself into?
He was too fatigued to worry and dared not think of home. Sleep came heavy and dreamless.

The French ship
Lamoriciere
stood at the dock along the Quai de la Joliette at Marseilles's Port Moderne. Her hull was painted black while her superstructure was white. She had been built in 1920 specifically for the Marseilles–North African trade. A little worse for wear, she was much smaller than the luxurious transatlantic French liner John had travelled in from New York. Only three hundred and seventy feet long, she had a capacity for only four hundred passengers in three classes. John boarded her and was shown to his first-class cabin. It was small, rather plain, but comfortable. After checking his trunk to ensure it had not been tampered with, he walked on deck to join other passengers standing at the rail. They watched as the mooring lines were cast off and the ship eased from the dock.
Lamoriciere
maneuvered out of the Bassin de la Grande Joliette. With smoke pouring from her two stacks, she headed south into the blue Mediterranean.

Unlike the trip across the Atlantic, John was surrounded by passengers of all colors: black Africans, both light- and dark-complexioned Egyptians and Arabs, a few Indians, small groups of Chinese or Japanese, and the usual mix of European businessmen and world travelers. Nonetheless, John felt alone. He did not find another American on board. At his assigned first-class dining table sat an Indian, an Englishman, and an Egyptian who spoke English. He could not hide the fact that he was American, but he followed the advice he had been given in Marseilles to keep the nature of his mission to himself. It appeared to John that his fellow passengers did much the same. He got the impression that
the world is nervous
.