by Stan Hayes
“Got any idea who’s involved, besides Pissant Grant?”
“Well, ya hear things. Like ole Chili-Dog Chiles has been for a long time, still is, th’ Kleagle, or head asshole. Ríni told me about Cat Dander, that ole buzzard that she keeps around to sweep out th’ hotel, sayin’ one time how proud he was ta be in th’ Klan. People like that; fuckin’ scum. None of ’em could whip yer average nigger in a fair fight, so they put on bedsheets an’ gang up on ’em at night. Bisque’s got its share a’freaks like that. You could probly pick ’em out on sight, just walkin’ down th’ street. Hell, we’ll probly recognize th’ cars they’re in.”
“Well,” said Moses, “I’ve been here long enough to know that the law sorta picks and chooses how it gets enforced. You see that everywhere. Even so, how in the hell this kinda shit can go on in th’ middle of th’ twentieth century amazes me.”
“It’s gone on for a long time; since Reconstruction,” said Gene Debs. Back then it wasn’t the scum ’a th’ earth under th’ hoods. After th’ war, with Union troops an’ carpetbagger Yankee civilians ta back ’em up, there was quite a few niggers that abused th’ privileges of their new citizenship, along with th’ worst kinda whites. Vigilante justice was th’ only kind available, and that’s what some white Southerners put in place with th’ Ku Klux Klan. But as time went on and things got better, th’ Klan hung on, recruitin’ from the no-counts in th’ name of ‘white supremacy.’ And all this time, they’ve carried on without much interference from th’ law, because th’ people that they prey on can’t, or won’t, identify ’em.”
“And, on occasion, because the people who’re responsible for enforcin’ the laws’re in cahoots with ’em, or at least don’t see much harm in what they do,” said Moses.
“Well, yeah, you gotta think about where these lawmen come from; pretty much th’ same places as th’ Klanners. And I guess they figure that what th’ Klan does to keep th’ niggers down jus’ makes their job easier.”
“Looks to me like,” Moses observed as he picked up a fresh drumstick, “These boys’re spoilin’ for the ultimate in practical jokes.”
Gene Debs grinned as he patted the bazooka’s barrel. “It may seem damn impractical to ’em, time we’re done.”
They did, as Moses expected, come from the south, a black 1940 Auburn sedan leading the caravan of six cars and two pickup trucks that slowed from a stately pace as they rounded the bend below the pond. “Looka yonder,” said Gene Debs.
“Umm-hm,” grunted Moses. “I’ve seen that heap in fronta th’ Burger Shack. It’s Chili Dog’s.” A brown 1939 Chevrolet was next, followed by a dark green 1946 Ford flatbed truck carrying the cross and two robed figures standing on either side of the cab. The lead car stopped momentarily, directly in front of Moses’ gate. “Guess they’re talkin’ about where to put it.”
Several minutes later, a hooded figure opened the Auburn’s right-side front door and got out. It walked back to the Chevrolet, gesturing toward the left side of the road. The driver pulled the car out of line and drove it well ahead of the Auburn, wheeling it hard left and backing it onto the edge of the field. The Auburn then followed suit, leaving room for the flatbed to back in directly across from Moses’ gate; the next vehicle, a 1936 Dodge pickup, did likewise, leaving a space of about forty feet between the trucks. The rest of the cars backed in beyond the pickup and disgorged their cargo. The two Klansmen riding on the flatbed jumped down and walked over to the pickup, pulling a pick, posthole digger and five-gallon water can from its bed. Going to the center of the open space, one of them swung the pick into the rock-hard red earth, penetrating no more than two or three inches. He swung again, and then again, going a little deeper each time, then paused to let the other pour water into the depression. The digging went on for about half an hour, one Klansmen spelling another, before the necessary hole was produced. The drivers of the three cars that chanced to pass by, realizing what was taking place, all sped up quickly and were gone.
As twilight faded, several hooded figures surrounded the flatbed on its three open sides, laying hands on various points of the Creosoted wood cross and pulling it toward the back. Another soaked the burlap sacks that had been wired around it with kerosene from a five-gallon can. They pulled the dripping cross off the truck, carried it to the hole and dropped it in, jumping back as the heavy timber fell into place. Except for two that were detailed as lookouts at opposite points several hundred feet from the site, the party surrounded the pickup’s bed and two large chests of beer.
“Mm-mm-mm- fuckin’-mm,” said Gene Debs. They built ’at thang out of a phone pole. If we ’us ta hit it dead center, an’ it a-burnin’, they’d be splinters from shit to shinola.”
“Be some trick, from here,” said Moses, “but we’ll damn sure get their attention. Hey; looks like they’re ready to light it off.” The light of a match, pin-point brilliant in the now-dark field, blossomed into a bigger ball of light as the torch to which it was touched ignited, illuminating the red-trimmed hood of the Klansman who held it. “Guess that’s Chili-Dog in th’ fancy hood.” The torch-bearer handed it to another figure (maybe Pissant? he thought), who approached the cross and touched it to the base, which exploded into flame with a roar that could be heard on the hill. The flames ran quickly up the cross’s shaft, out to the ends of the crossbar and up to its top as the Klansmen circled it outside scorching range.
“Well, they do know how ta burn one, I’ll give ‘em that,” said Gene Debs. “Guess we oughta give it a few minutes to let th’ wood light off.”
“Makes me wonder if they’ve got anything else in mind,” said Moses. “Seems like this’d motivate ’em to some further mischief.”
Gene Debs drained a Red Cap and stood up, walking over to one of the ammo boxes. “It might, if they ’us dealin’ with their usual victims. But I doubt they got anythang else in mind. They got that gate to deal with, and they don’t know what else.”
“Well, they’re about ready to find out,” said Moses. “Shall we find the range?”
Gene Debs shouldered the bazooka, looking through its sighting tube. “Damn if I can see much but that cross. Guess I’ll just ease up a little from th’ top and lay one in ‘ere.”
“OK,” said Moses, sliding a round into the tube and plugging its wire contacts into the trigger box, making sure he was clear of the backblast. “Light ’er off, bud.” His voice was lost in the rocket’s whooshing roar. The fire team watched its glowing tail flash past the blazing cross and disappear. A split-second later, it crashed against the kudzu-choked hill with a momentary flash that dwarfed the cross’s flare, followed by the explosion’s concussive BOOM that Moses felt sure took the Klansmen’s breath away, as it had his when they’d first fired the weapon at Gene Debs’. To a man, they appeared to be frozen in place. “Damn, wish we had x-ray binoculars. I’d love to see the looks on those bastards’ faces.”
“Load me up again,” said Gene Debs. “Maybe I can blow some ’a them fuckin’ hoods right off.” Moses slid another round into the tube and got out of the way. The whoosh and explosion repeated, the BOOM louder. “Yeeehaah! Right at th’ base of th’ hill! Look at ’em scatter! Quick, load me up!” As the Klansmen ran to their cars, Moses shoved another round into the bazooka and plugged in the contacts. This time the roar of the rocket and the explosion of the round were almost on top of each other. “I hit it!” Gene Debs crowed! I hit th’ sonofabitch!” And he had; the cross was blown to bits, and the red-hot bits were everywhere; in the Klan robes, on the roofs of the vehicles and all over the road. The Klansman in the red-trimmed hood stood alone, his robe smoldering in several places, fists above his head, shaking them at the sky. Seeing him, one of the others came back to where he stood, sprayed him down with a shaken bottle of beer, and dragged him into the back of the Auburn. The pickup wouldn’t start and was abandoned, its roof in flames. In less than a minute, they were gone.
They sat for a moment in the deepening quiet, saying nothing. Moses broke
the silence as he went for the ice chest. “Reckon that pickup’ll light off?”
“Hard to say,” said Gene Debs as he took a fresh Red Cap from him. Guess we oughta sit here an’ see.”
“Makes sense; then we need to think about clearin’ off this hillside an stashin’ the bazooka.”
“Hell; you think they wawna bring th’ law into this? What th’s hell would they say, ‘somebidy illegally innerfered with our illegal doins’?’ even that buncha fartheads got more pride than that. They got whupped, an’ they don’t even know how. The last thing they want is for people ta fiind out about it.”
“That’s true,” said Moses, “but I can’t just act like they weren’t here; that’d be a dead giveaway. Particularly if that smokin’ pickup over there goes up. Gotta put in a concerned citizen’s call to ole Wahoo, and if he wants to look around I’d just as soon he didn’t find our tracks up here.”
“Guess so. Hey.”
“What?”
“J’you see ole Chili Dog shakin’ them fists up at heaven?” Gene Debs’ chuckle escalated slowly into uncontrollable wheezing, to which, as he recaptured the image, Moses added his own whoopery. Convulsed, they both slowly slid down the trees they’d been leaning against.
“I’ve just got one thing to say about today, GD.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm.” The piney woods rang with their laughter.
“I’da been here sooner, but we’re short-handed,” said Wahoo McDaniel, gingerly scraping the ground around the base of the cross with the lacquered sole of his highly-polished boot. “Anyway, since you said there was no real damage or anybody hurt, I thought I’d take a look personally, in broad daylight.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” said Moses. “For all the noise they made, there really isn’t much to see.”
“Thatair post looks like it’us hit by liitnin’,” the sheriff said, squinting up at the long, jagged splinters menacing the sky. “Lucky nobody got hit by th’ pieces when they hit th’ ground.”
“I thought at first that it was thunder,” said Moses.
“More like some kinda bomb that went off when it ought not to. Where were you when you heard it?”
“Up in th’ barn.”
“You keepin’ livestock?” asked the sheriff, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
“No. Just workout gear. I converted the barn into a gym; I was skippin’ rope up there when I heard the blast. The trees block the view of the road from there. By the time I got far enough up the driveway to see what was going on, they were all pullin’ out.”
“You were skippin’ rope,” said the sheriff, letting the beginning of a grin develop before suppressing it. “And you were alone on th’ property.”
“Right.”
“Well, somebody’s gonna get a bill for cleanin’ this up. You didn’t see how any of ’em were dressed? That is, you didn’t see any Klan robes?”
“All I saw,” said Moses, “was a buncha cars and trucks hightailin’ it outa here.”
“Could you identify any of th’ vehicles?”
“No; the only impression I got were they were pretty old, and mostly black.”
“Hm. Well, I think we can safely assume that it was a Klan undertakin’,” said the sheriff. “And I think we can also safely assume that it was directed at you, since nobody else lives within half a mile of here. Any idea why you’d be a Klan target?”
“Nope. I thought their specialty was people who were more or less defenseless.”
The sheriff looked at him for a long ten seconds before saying, “There’s a lotta truth in that. And you don’t consider yourself in that category.”
Moses returned his gaze, saying, “Would you put me in that category, offhand?”
“No, offhand I wouldn’t,” the sheriff said. “We don’t know each other all that well, but I’d say you’d be likely to give a pretty good account a’yourself. Unless you’us outnumbered, or ambushed. And they like ta do both.”
“I appreciate the warning; I’ll watch my back; is there anything else you’d suggest?”
“Not much, short of leavin’ town, and I doubt you’d have any interest in that.”
“Not a bit.”
After another of the sheriff’s lengthy looks, he said, “Doubt I would either, if I was in your shoes. Well,” he said with a wave, “lemme know if you have any more contact with these pissaints. The way they’re goin’, they miit just blow their own up an’ save me some work.”
“Thanks for stoppin’ by,” said Moses to the sheriff’s erect khaki back.
Seeing much more black ink than usual at the top of the front page, Moses picked up the Bisque Bugle lying on his office sofa. He unfolded it to reveal a banner headline:
BISQUE MARINE DECORATED IN KOREA
“Corporal Reginald R. Williams of Bisque, serving with the U.S. Marine Corps’ First Division in Korea, has been promoted to his present rank and awarded the Silver Star, the nation’s third highest decoration for valor in combat.” The citation followed:
WILLIAMS , Reginald R.
Rank and organization: Private First Class, U.S. Marine Corps, Company C, 3d Battalion, 7 Marines, 1st Marine Division (Rein.).
Place and date: Korea, 8 December 1950.
Entered service at: Augusta, Ga. Born: 3 February 1932, Bisque, Ga.
Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as an acting squad leader of Company C, in action against enemy aggressor forces. Assuming the point position in the attack against a strongly defended and well-entrenched numerically superior enemy force occupying a vital hill position which had been unsuccessfully assaulted on 5 separate occasions by units of the Marine Corps and other friendly forces, PFC Williams fearlessly led his men in a bayonet charge up the precipitous slope under a deadly hail of hostile mortar, small-arms, and machine gun fire. Quickly rallying his squad when it was pinned down by a heavy and accurate mortar barrage, he continued to lead his men through the bombarded area and, although only 6 members were left in the casualty-ridden unit, gained the military crest of the hill where his squad was immediately subjected to an enemy counterattack.
Although greatly outnumbered by an estimated enemy squad, PFC Williams boldly engaged the hostile force with hand grenades and rifle fire and, exhorting his gallant group of marines to follow him, stormed forward to completely overwhelm the enemy. With only 4 men now left in his squad, he proceeded to spearhead an assault on the last remaining strongpoint which was defended by the enemy on a rocky and almost inaccessible portion of the hill position. Climbing up the extremely hazardous precipice, he hurled grenades with one hand and, with 3 remaining comrades, succeeded in annihilating the pocket of resistance and in consolidating the position.
Immediately subjected to a sharp counterattack by an estimated enemy squad, he skillfully directed the fire of his men and employed his own weapon with deadly effectiveness to repulse the numerically superior hostile force. By his valiant leadership, indomitable fighting spirit and resolute determination in the face of heavy odds, PFC Williams served to inspire all who observed him and was directly responsible for the destruction of the enemy stronghold. His great personal valor reflects the highest credit upon himself and enhances and sustains the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.
Moses reread the article, then read it again. Then he got up and walked out into the warehouse, carrying the paper and looking for Ralph Williams. Seeing him, he shouted “Hey Ralph!”
Ralph looked up and, seeing Moses, walked toward him. “What’s up, boss?”
Moses handed him the paper. “ J’you see this?”
Ralph took the paper, looked at it for a moment, then at Moses. “No, sir, I didn’t. Got a letter from ’im a coupla days back. He said keep it under my hat. Guess we shoulda known the Marines’ PIO’d get this to th’ home town paper.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Why’d he wanta keep th’
lid on this? Ziggy’s a hero.”
“He said too many Marines didn’t get nothin’ outa that action but dead, and that he didn’t feel too good about takin’ th’ credit for sump’m they all did together.”
“Well, he’s the one who was there, and he knows how he feels about it. But he can’t give it back. Any chance he’ll get some leave out of the deal?”
“He said there hadn’t been any word. Wounded’ll get priority, and I’m damn glad he’s in one piece, even if he don’t get leave right away. Oh, there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
Ralph’s effort to conceal his pride was real, but failed. “He said he made Corporal.”
“Wonder if the war hero still keeps his money in his shoe,” mused Flx, perched on the crown of Jack’s head as they read Ziggy’s Silver Star citation in the Bugle.
“How the fuck’d you know about that?”
“Goddam, kid. When’re you gonna get used to the fact that I’ve been around the block a time or two? I’ve hatched and hatched and hatched again, and my flight range’s sump’m you would’nt believe. And don’t let a little shot of time travel throw you.”
“OK, bud. Since you know so much, I got a simple one for you.”
“Whassat?”
“How many men did Ziggy kill?”
Flx flew to the top of Jack’s chest of drawers. “Sorry you asked that.”
“Aha. You don’t know, do you?”
“I could find out, but I ain’t going to.”
“What? Why not?”
“ ’Cause it won’t do him, or you, any good to know. Once a person kills one other person, all bets’re off. If you knew how many he killed, that number’d be forever stuck to Ziggy in your mind.”
Jack thought, then spoke. “You’re right. I don’t need to know. Glad one of us’s got some damn sense.”
Chapter XIV. Precious Lord
