Air Force Eagles

by Walter J. Boyne

  "Did you see my wife or my son?"

  "Yeah, both of them, and the baby, too. They was coming out to get in their car, they got a green and white Olds 88. I couldn't see much, but she looked nice, he looked nice. Couldn't see much of the little one."

  Josten leaned forward. "I've got to take you into my confidence. And ask you to help me. It will be worth your while."

  "Sure, boss, do you want me to snatch the kid?"

  Josten slammed his fist down hard, jarring the ill-protected bones of his hands. "Don't talk like that." Then, recovering himself, "Sorry, that word bothers me. You can't kidnap your own child, your own wife."

  Baker nodded, hung his head penitently.

  "But I want to have a few days alone with my wife, here in my bus, away from everybody. Then I can get her to listen to reason."

  Baker looked at him reflectively; here was this organizational genius, this hard-as-nails leader, living crazy in a dream world. He was ugly as sin, brutal as a chainsaw, and he was going to charm his kidnapped wife back to loving him. What a bunch of shit!

  "Will she come?"

  "No. Not unless I force her to, and the only way I can force her to is to bring Ulrich here. Then she'll come along."

  Baker was merciless trying to force Josten to be sensible. "Use Ulrich as a hostage? Threaten his life?"

  Josten hung his head. It was the first time Baker had ever seen him less than totally arrogant. "Yes. But after a few days alone, if she wants to leave, I'll let her."

  "Boss, be realistic. She's going to hate you for this. Why should she want to stay? What are you going to do with the two kids? It's a cinch she's going to care more about them than you, or her new husband or anything else."

  "You're not as stupid as you act, Baker. You're quite right about this. But this is something I must do. I cannot help it. I don't expect you to understand."

  Baker shook his head. "And I can tell what's coming. You want me to help, and you want Elsie and me to baby-sit for you. Right?"

  Josten simply nodded, waiting.

  Baker thought for a solid two minutes before speaking. Things were going well here, playing soldier, living a good life with Elsie. But it couldn't go on forever, not with the race thing boiling. He'd like to help Josten if he could, but it was a losing battle. Finally, he said, "I won't help you with the kidnapping, and don't go yelling at me, it's kidnapping, any way you look at it. If you get back here safely with them, I'll take the kids for two days, no more; I'll tell the cops I didn't know what was going on, didn't believe them at first. Then I got to turn you in, to protect Elsie and me. So you got to do whatever you're going to do in two days, then let her go."

  "I'm not sure I can manage it alone."

  "You can't. That's why I ain't doing it. I'm really thinking about you, Helmut."

  Josten, his shoulders hunched like a brooding vulture, murmured, "But I could get some young Storm Klanners to help. I'll tell them it's in the interests of national security; some of them will do whatever I want."

  "That ain't right, boss. You're setting some kids up for a term in the pokey, and they won't even know why."

  Josten, who had seemed to wilt as they talked, becoming frailer, more vulnerable, snapped back to his hard Luftwaffe colonel self.

  He thought momentarily of all the good men who'd died in the Luftwaffe and snarled, "Well, why do you think I trained them this way? Do you think it matters if a few of these acne-crusted supermen go to jail or not?"

  *

  Montgomery, Alabama/August 8, 1957

  It seemed incredible to her that she could be there, on the steps of the famous Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, in the company of the most brilliant men she'd ever met, smarter than John, smarter even than Fred. The great white capital building loomed only two blocks away, its spotlit dome glittering in the night. It was here that Jefferson Davis had begun the Confederacy, it was here that the painful battle of the buses had been fought and won, despite the Klan and the shootings and the bombings. She had worked there during the boycott, proud of the long lines of Black men and women stolidly walking to work, ignoring the nearly empty buses passing by. And it was here that Martin Luther King, Jr., had assumed the presidency of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.

  For the first time, she was beginning to understand and resent Fred Peterson's anger. She now saw that the Urban League was concentrated in the North, that the NAACP had become elitist, and that CORE wasn't going anywhere. All of them had reached an accommodation in their style of operation that business leaders, white and Black, could live with. That was right in line with Fred's business and he had supported them all. But Dr. King was offering something new, a mass movement keyed to Southern churches and nonviolence, and it had to use anti-business methods to succeed. The bus boycott had worked—Blacks and whites were now riding the buses, freely mixing with no problems. If it worked on a bus company, who could tell what other businesses might be boycotted?

  Yet King was the only truly dramatic leader on the scene. In his introduction yesterday, Ralph Abernathy had used a word new to her to describe King—charismatic; she'd looked it up after the meeting. He was exactly that, charismatic; why shouldn't he have his own style of mass movement?

  King's beautiful wife stood in the shadows, obviously tired from the two long days of prayers and meetings. Saundra tried not to envy her. Alan Loeb, white, obviously Jewish, with a hooked nose that seemed integral to his tortoise-shell glasses, had King's full attention. They talked low and earnestly, erupting into laughter frequently. Reverend Abernathy, a little taller than King but similar in appearance, hovered in the background, obviously disapproving of the white man's presence, of his influence.

  The meetings had ended with a determination to raise $250,000 to open offices for the SCLC in Atlanta. During the deliberations Saundra had been doing some calculations. It would be difficult for her to provide the entire amount without selling off the company. But she should be able to raise half of it by selling her house and her car. Moving forward, she edged toward their conversation. A large man intervened.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but Dr. King is tired and we're trying to keep him from being disturbed." She could tell it was a spiel he used often, a mixture of condescension and pity for another lovestruck woman trying to edge close enough to touch King.

  "Would you please tell Dr. King that I want to make a substantial pledge toward the new offices?"

  "Surely, ma'am. How much were you planning to give?" The light was poor at the edge of the stairs, but he could see that she was well dressed.

  "One hundred twenty-five."

  The man smiled. "That's a nice gift, but I'd hesitate to interrupt his conversation with Mr. Loeb and Reverend Abernathy for that. You understand, don't you?"

  She shook her head. "No—one hundred twenty-five thousand."

  The man gulped, took her arm, and steered her to the center of the group. As she passed, she saw Coretta King scowl.

  "Dr. King, this lady has a mighty fine pledge to offer."

  King turned to her, his face serene, and smiled. "Why I know you, you're Saundra Marshall, the lady who has brought us funds from California and helped during the boycott." He turned and in that warm melodious baritone crooned, "Coretta, this is Saundra Marshall—her husband flew us to Washington in that lovely airplane."

  Mrs. King managed a small smile. Saundra realized that given all the funds she'd brought to him, King should have known her, but was flattered all the same.

  "Dr. King, I believe I can pledge one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars; I don't have it in cash, I'll have to sell some things, but I can give it to you in a month or two, I'm sure."

  His warm eyes were penetrating, comforting. "I've noticed you in the audience, both days, taking notes." His hand touched her arm and she felt a current flow. "You won't be depriving yourself, now, will you? That's a great deal of money. And what will your husband say? John, isn't it? John the Pilot."

  Behind him Alan grinned, as
if he'd thought of something bawdy to say and was restraining himself.

  "No, he backs you strongly, too."

  "Then thank you, you've made a difference. I won't forget it."

  *

  Little Rock, Arkansas/August 17, 1957

  Stan Coleman had not had much to laugh about in the preceding months; he stood at the doorway of the decrepit Twin Beech, chortling with pleasure.

  "Fitz, you're a sight for sore eyes. Where the hell have you been, what have you been doing? And where the hell did you get this dog?"

  Fitzpatrick, balding and haggard-looking, his flight suit stained with too much sweat and too many sandwiches en route, eased his way out of the oval entrance. "After our unscheduled departure from Frederick, I went into the freight business with a couple of guys. We bought two C-47s and two C-45s. Trouble was there were five hundred other guys out there trying to do the same thing. When we ran out of rent money, we divvied up the airplanes. I flew down to see if you had anything I could do here."

  "Hell yes, man, the governor's special liaison officer to the Arkansas National Guard and Air National Guard deserves his own plane and pilot—you're the man."

  "Think they'll let me back in the service? They weren't too happy when I left."

  "Don't sweat it—the governor's word is law, and he'll be proud to bring you on. You can fly him around, too."

  Fitz pulled two B-4 bags out of the doorway. "Stan, this airplane and these two bags are all I got in the world. You're going to have to advance me some dough and find a place I can hangar this dude."

  "No sweat, we'll put it in the Air Guard hangar here, get them to clean it up. Does it need any maintenance?"

  "The radios are shot, and the engines need top overhauls."

  "No sweat, little buddy. Goddamn, it's good to have someone to talk to in this crazy cracker town. We'll have a blast."

  Fitz arched his back, stretching his arms. "Sounds good, Stan, but no more double-entry bookkeeping, huh? I got a bellyful of that at Frederick."

  "Fitz, old man, that was nothing; wait till you see what we got cooking here. You're going to love it."

  Ten days later both Fitz and the C-45 had undergone a transformation. He was outfitted in a lieutenant colonel's uniform, complete with the aiguillette of a general's personal aide, and quartered in renovated farm building less than a mile from the hangar where his Beechcraft had been completely overhauled and painted.

  "Stan, you guys are miracle workers. New fabric, new instrument panel, more radios than RCA—you've really made something out of this dude. But is it legal to have it painted like it was a real Guard airplane?"

  "It is a real Guard airplane, until you decide to leave, anyway. But I'm not going to let you do that. We've got a crisis coming, and I'll want to use this bird as an aerial command post. That's why I've got so many radios—need to talk to the Guard, the Air Guard, the police, the Klan, everybody."

  "You think the colored people are going to cause trouble?" "They better, we're counting on it. Let me rephrase that. Yes, the niggers are going to cause trouble, and we're going to stop them."

  ***

  Chapter 14

  Salinas, California/September 7, 1957

  The three men shared the newspaper with its headlines about the evolving school crisis in Little Rock—the governor turning the schoolchildren away with the National Guard; the mobs chanting hatred at the students, pretty little kids, all nine of them.

  Marshall scowled. "I sure don't like my wife being down there."

  Hadley looked at him sourly. "You don't like it, why don't you yank her back here?"

  "For Christ's sake, Hadley, butt out! John's got enough on his mind without you giving him your cockamamie opinions."

  Hadley glowered at Bandfield and said, "Well, how cockamamie is this? Is this a good time for us to go on our Southern tour with John here being a Negro? Don't you think it will be dangerous for him? And bad for business besides?"

  Bandfield looked at his old friend, appalled. Hadley had embarrassed him in a hundred places over the years, with customers and bosses, women and children, friend and foe; he'd never made him feel as bad as he did at that moment.

  He turned to Marshall. "Bones, I'm sorry. Hadley gets carried away. He doesn't mean anything."

  Marshall shook his head. "Hell, I know that. Hadley hasn't got a mean bone in his body, nor a tactful one. He's just trying to figure out what's best for all of us, and maybe he's right. What's our route?"

  Bandfield pulled out a folded paper, scanned it, and read, "Phoenix, then Albuquerque, Dallas, Shreveport, Montgomery, Atlanta, Nashville, and Memphis. If we can make any other appointments along the way, we will."

  "Well, we'll be okay probably till we get to Shreveport. I've been into Love Field at Dallas lots of times; they know me there, it won't be a problem. But from Shreveport on, they're not likely to take kindly to me with what's going on in Little Rock. Why don't you go on without me?"

  Roget, abashed, said, "Hell, you're our chief water-bombardier. Maybe we just ought to cancel."

  Bandfield waved his arms. "The hell we will. We've got half a million dollars tied up in inventory; if we don't sell a few airplanes this trip, we'll have to drop the whole water-bomber deal, and then where would Bones be?"

  Marshall thought for a moment about his old comrade in arms, Jellybutt Walker, and how he used to get him out of scrapes at Tuskegee. Aware that Roget now felt bad, he nodded. "Listen, I've been down in Dixie before, at flight school, and lately, flying the big-wig Blacks around. I know how to shuffle and drink out of the right fountains, don't worry about me."

  Hadley grinned, relieved at the way things had turned out. "Well, we got the barrels of dye all loaded, the airplanes are ready. What the hell are we waiting for?"

  "Okay, we'll launch tomorrow."

  *

  Frederick Air Force Base, California/ September 17, 1957

  The clouds were slung like a hammock between the mountain ranges, dark but unthreatening, perfect for what he had to do. Josten had drawn the shades on the front windows and now turned to look at her. Even with her hair short she was as beautiful as always. Lyra was graying slightly; that appealed to him, made her more vulnerable. She stood with her long tapering hands on Ulrich's shoulders. His son's shoulders. Their son.

  Lyra forced herself to look him in the eyes, trying not to show fear or disgust at his livid scars, more prominent where his uninjured flesh had tanned. Yet his manner was terrifying, as anxious and snappish as a birthing wolf.

  "Please don't do this, Helmut, don't ruin everything for me, for the children, for yourself. What we had was wonderful, but it's over. There are the children to think about. Taking us is insane."

  He jumped at every sound, moving constantly, his eyes gleaming like a guard dog's in their death-cave sockets, his tiny pupils tight discs of black. It was strange to see him dressed in the coarse denim overalls of a working man, a checkered handkerchief hanging from one pocket. She remembered him as he'd been, so many years ago, in his handsome Luftwaffe uniform, young, full of promise.

  "Lyra, everything was ruined for me—ruined for us—when you deserted me with my son."

  He spoke conversationally, as if he did not have his revolver pointed at Ulrich's head. Ulrich was near tears, his eyes wide.

  "If you do as I tell you, no one will be harmed in the slightest. You will have a little vacation, that's all. At the end of it, I hope you'll want to stay with me. If you don't, you'll be free to leave; I'll arrange for you to fly back."

  He ruffled Ulrich's hair with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. "You're a fine big boy for thirteen, Ulrich. Your father's proud of you."

  Ulrich looked at his mother, rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  Lyra said, "We won't go. I can't leave my Gracie."

  "Grade is welcome to come with us." He spoke of her as if she were an awkward stranger who'd invited herself to dinner. "But we must go now. If you don't come, at once, I'll kill all of us here—Grac
ie, too—in the next minute."

  Ulrich fought back tears and Lyra's stomach convulsed. She threw up, quickly turning away to avoid soiling Ulrich.

  "Clean yourself up, and then we're leaving. Don't try to do anything heroic."

  He stood guarding her as she washed. She peered at him in the mirror, realizing that all her fears had materialized, that it was happening just as she feared. Helmut had come for her, as he always said he would, and he was totally insane. His eyes told her that he would kill them all if she refused. She had to go along with him, and wait for something to happen, some way to get word to someone for help. It was the nightmare of war all over again, the bombing, the train, the smell of death.

  As always, their neighborhood was quiet; in the entire street, only one house had a light on. Josten herded them into the Pontiac he had rented and drove down Route 99 fifteen miles to where the bus was parked with the Cadillac. He'd selected three Storm Klanners, tough young guards from the local state prison, to come along, swearing them to secrecy, telling them that they were going to foil a Communist plot. They had been swept up by the glamour of it, ex-farmboys from Arkansas on a secret mission with this godlike creature, this Klan-Fuehrer. It was the high point of their lives and they willingly did everything he asked without question, enjoying the trip, relishing the baloney sandwiches they ate as they drove as much as they did the quick meals in the Stuckeys. There was satisfaction in obeying Josten's quick, harsh orders as they saw things they'd never dreamed of seeing in Pine Bluff.

  With Lyra and the children secure in the living compartment of the bus, they drove cross-country without stopping, alternating drivers to keep pushing on. Josten hated to be gone during the building turmoil in Little Rock, but Coleman had told him that the showdown would not happen until at least the 23rd. It was the crisis that had made him decide to act; he might not have another chance. Riley being overseas made it mandatory to act.