“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” I yelled, tumbling off my perch and falling spread-eagle into a patch of high grass. I hit the ground with a thud and lay there momentarily to catch my breath.
“Uh-oh,” Billy said softly.
I was now inside the fence line with no way out.
“You okay?” Jon asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, peering through the chain-link fence. “Throw me another board. I’ll use it to climb out of here.”
Jon and Billy heaved another long plank over the barbed wire and I quickly propped it against the fence. I wiped the mud off my Chuck Taylors and began to climb up the plank. “Hey, this works,” I said triumphantly as I reached the top of the fence.
As I turned to look back, I could see the Gravel Gertie. To me it was like the evil mastermind’s lair in some great adventure story. Our hero had been thwarted in his first attempt, but I knew Napoleon Solo never gave up on a mission. Neither would I.
“Hand me another board,” I said.
“What!” Billy asked.
“Quick, quick, quick! Hand me a plank. I’ll just make another bridge.”
Jon and Billy grabbed two more long boards and slid them over the top of the barbed wire. I placed the third board against the middle fence, and after a few tries managed to get the fourth board over the middle fence and into the grass on the other side.
It was hot, Texas hot, and the sweat began to roll down my forehead. I cleaned off the Chuck Taylors, extended my arms for balance, and tightroped my way to the top of the “electric” fence. Clearly, I had not thought this through. Unlike at the first fence, I couldn’t use the barbed wire to balance myself for fear that a million volts would fry me. I assumed a million volts because it was a government fence and a million was a big number. Teetering at the top of the board, my only option for getting to the other side was to jump over the three strands of wire, hit the dirt, and do a cool, secret agent somersault. Yes, clearly, I had not thought this through.
Jon and Billy were peering through the fence like they were watching a baseball game from outside the park.
“Be careful!” Jon yelled, his high-pitched voice cracking with fear.
As I inched closer to the top of the board, I could feel the plank give a bit. It was starting to slip from the ground up.
“Hurry, hurry!” Billy screamed.
Bending my knees, I took two steps and pushed off the board, launching myself over the top of the fence. I knew from the start that my leap wasn’t high enough. The heel of my Chuck Taylors caught the top of the wire just enough to alter my flight. Hands and feet flailing erratically, I tumbled out of control into the grass below. Landing on all fours, I rolled sideways down a slight knoll. I hopped up quickly and dusted myself off. Jon was clapping gleefully, but Billy was pointing to the board on the other side of the fence. It now lay buried in the grass, having fallen from the fence as I jumped. My escape route was compromised.
I picked up the plank on my side of the middle fence and leaned it back against the barbed wire. The mission was getting considerably harder.
“Come on, guys!” I whisper-yelled. “Climb over.”
Jon looked at Billy and said in a panic, “I’m just the lookout. You told me you just wanted me to stay here.”
“Yeah, yeah. You can stay and keep watch,” Billy responded. Jon immediately picked up the binoculars, grabbed Old Betsy, and moved about twenty yards down the fence line. There was nothing to see from that position but more trees.
“Are you coming?” I asked Billy, but I could see that look in his eyes. The rickety planks and the fear of the electric fence were not his idea of an adventure. This was real danger, not the made-up stuff we usually played.
“Maybe I should stay here and keep watch with Jon,” Billy said, somewhat weakly. Then he paused for a second, wiped back his mop of blond hair, and smiled. “You can be James Bond,” he offered.
“I get to be James Bond?”
“Yeah, yeah. You can be James Bond,” Billy said.
“Cool. Okay, you can be Napoleon Solo,” I said.
It seemed like a good trade to me. After all, this really was a mission for 007, not the Man from U.N.C.L.E.
There was no way to get to the Gravel Gertie now, but at least I could get to the top of the third fence and see if any nefarious activity was taking place at the top-secret installation.
Grabbing the plank from the middle fence, I dragged it to the final barrier and laid it at an angle against the barbed wire. Wiping off my Chuck Taylors one more time, I got a running start and bounded up the plank. As my weight hit the board, the plank slid slightly to the right and tossed me off halfway up. I readjusted the plank, securing it against a metal strut, and backed off even farther to get up more speed. I looked over my shoulder and could see Billy’s face pinned against the chain-link fence, a real look of concern in his eyes.
“Be careful!” he yelled.
I just nodded and started my sprint.
As I hit the plank I sprang forward and in a few steps found myself balancing on top of the board. Like Sir Edmund Hillary on Everest, I looked around and surveyed the land before me. The Gravel Gertie was almost completely visible now and it was everything we thought it would be: a sinister-looking fortified bunker, with concertina wire and warning signs posted at every corner. But looking around, there was no one in sight. No guards, no dogs, no henchmen with steel blades in their hats, no nothing.
I looked back at Billy and waved. He still didn’t seem happy.
“That was easy,” I muttered to myself.
Suddenly, a siren began to sound, the noise so loud I had to cup my ears. A red light at the entrance to the Gravel Gertie was spinning at high RPMs, and in the distance, while I couldn’t make out the words, I could hear a loudspeaker blaring a call to arms.
“Hurry, hurry!” Billy started yelling.
“They’re coming!” Jon shouted.
And they were coming. I could hear the rumble of a truck not far away and soon the most frightening sound I had ever heard—a dog, a massive Hound of the Baskervilles, barking, angry dog.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I slid down the plank, grabbed the piece of wood, and charged toward the middle fence. Laying the slat against the fence, I backed off and tried to run up the board. I slid back. Once, twice, three times.
Now both Billy and Jon were at the first fence, their hands clinching the chain link, yelling for me to hurry up.
The sound of the K-9 was getting closer. I couldn’t tell if he was on the inside or the outside of the fence, or if he was on a leash or running wildly toward his prey, but I knew what I had to do. Reaching into my small knapsack, I tore open the package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs and began tossing them in every direction. If only I had steaks, I thought.
Backing off one final time, I got down into a starting position, hands on the ground, butt in the air, and then, with a loud yell, launched my body into a sprint. I hit the plank, arms pumping, legs churning, and quickly dashed to the top. Without hesitation, I raised my knees high and leaped over the barbed wire, landing on all fours in the soft grass.
“This is the Air Police,” a voice from a bullhorn announced. “You are in a restricted area. Use of lethal force is authorized.”
“Hurry, hurry!” Billy yelled again.
Running to the final plank, I hit it at full speed, but only managed to get halfway. Grabbing the sides of the board, I clawed my way up the remaining few feet, balancing precariously at the top. Looking toward the Gravel Gertie, I could see something moving through the woods, a man and his dog driven by the scent of fear and Oscar Mayer.
As I started to ease my body over the final strand of barbed wire, my Roy Rogers pearl-handled six-shooter fell from my holster onto the ground below. I looked at Billy and then down toward the pistol.
“Come on! We gotta go!” Billy screamed.
Billy held the last plank and I slid down from the top of the fence, tumbling the last four fee
t to the ground. Jon was about to wet his pants. He was jumping up and down and pointing wildly in the direction of the approaching K-9.
“Run, run!” I yelled.
Flailing with arms and legs, we took off at a gallop, dashing through the woods back to the dry creek bed. The siren was still blaring and I could hear more instructions coming over the loudspeaker.
The sound of the truck grew louder as we got to the gully and moved back toward the housing area. “This is the Air Police. Stop or you will be fired upon.” I remember thinking the airman’s voice was very matter-of-fact. I guess if you’re the guy doing the shooting and not the guy getting shot at, then you can be calm. We were not calm.
“They are going to start shooting at us,” Jon cried.
“No they’re not,” I said, trying to act confident.
“I think they are,” Billy said, not helping my case.
“We’re outside the fence. They can’t shoot us now,” I responded.
Suddenly the sound of a shotgun echoed through the woods, the pellets raining down on the other side of the creek.
“Maybe we should stop. Give ourselves up,” Jon suggested.
“It’s only another mile to the housing area,” I said. “Keep moving. We’re not giving up.”
We were past the opening where the truck was visible, but we could hear the engine and it was beginning to move away, back toward the Gravel Gertie. No one said anything. We just kept moving.
Two hours after the mission began, we broke through the tree line and made our way back to my house. We cowered in the garage for several hours, waiting for the police to come and take us away, but no one ever showed. I peeked out the side door several times, but the neighborhood was quiet. The siren and loudspeakers had stopped before we left the woods, and now it seemed like just another Saturday afternoon.
Jon was sniffling quietly, worried that his parents would find out and take away Saturday morning cartoons. Billy and I had other worries. Both our dads were old school and we would get more than a stern lecture.
As “Taps” sounded that evening, Billy and Jon headed home. I left the garage and walked into the kitchen. Mom was cooking fried chicken and Dad was in the living room reading the newspaper. Mom gave me a big hug and asked where I had been all day.
“At the clubhouse,” I answered.
“That’s nice,” she said.
I washed up, had dinner, and then the whole family settled in to watch NBC Saturday Night at the Movies.
On Sunday, Billy, Jon, and I gathered at my house and recounted the mission a dozen times. We were worthy secret agents. “M” would no doubt be giving us another mission sometime soon. Not too soon, though, Jon worried.
By Monday, everything seemed to be back to normal—until Dad came home.
“Bill, I need to talk to you,” he said, summoning me into the living room. “There was an attempted break-in at the ammunition storage facility this weekend. Do you know anything about it?” he asked.
Before I could answer, he started talking again. “Do you know how serious breaking into a restricted area can be? The APs have orders to shoot to kill.”
I swallowed hard.
Then I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before—fear. Fear for me. Fear that I could have been shot. Fear that he might have lost his son.
“The police think it might have been some kids from the neighborhood. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No sir,” I replied.
“Do you know anything about this?”
And then, for the first and last time in my life, I lied to my father.
“No sir,” I said.
He looked sad. And I knew why.
He just nodded, said okay, and let me go.
That evening I finished my bath, kissed my parents good night, and went to my bedroom. As I pulled back the sheets and started to get under the covers, there, resting on my nightstand, was my Roy Rogers pearl-handled six-shooter.
CHAPTER THREE
IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
1973
The oval running track beneath my feet felt hard and unforgiving. There were three hundred yards left to go. It was time for my kick. Time for my kick. Where is my kick?
“Now!” I screamed, pumping my arms to gain some momentum.
The runner beside me edged into the second lane, forcing me to swing wide.
Twenty men left. I would take them down one at a time. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.
I could hear the crowd at the stadium screaming. On the grass infield, my coach, looking down at his stopwatch, was yelling at the top of his voice, “Faster! Faster!”
Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.
Two hundred yards left. I had to make my move if I was going to break the school record in the mile.
Five. Four. Three.
I was running out of fuel. I started my kick too soon. Behind me a runner began to catch up.
No one catches me on my kick! My lungs were burning and my legs were dead. No one catches me!
He caught me. He passed me.
The last hundred yards seemed like forever. I crossed the finish line and stumbled onto the infield, collapsing in pain. Drenched from sweat in the Texas heat, I rolled onto my knees and threw up the steak dinner I had eaten just three hours earlier.
“Well, you were close,” the coach said, trying to console me.
“Time? What was the time?” I asked between gasps for air.
“It could have been better,” the coach answered, handing me the stopwatch.
Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I looked down at the watch.
“4:37.20.”
“Four minutes, thirty-seven seconds, and two-tenths.” It was almost a full five seconds off the record of 4:32.70. A dismal time.
My friends and teammates, Mike Morris and Mike Dippo, came dashing across the infield. “What was the time?” Morris asked excitedly.
The coach handed him the watch.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed for me. “Man, it looked like such a good race.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it, Bill,” Dippo said. “You’ve got one more race. You’ll get it. You’ll get the record.”
Five seconds, I thought. In the mile, five seconds was an eternity. I had been closer to the record before: within two seconds. Lately, however, my times had been increasing rather than decreasing. I was losing my confidence and my opportunity to put my name in the school record book.
For years I had dreamed of being an Olympic-caliber runner. I read every book on the great high school and college star Jim Ryun. I watched old film of Roger Bannister, the first man to break the four-minute mile. Kip Keino and the wave of African runners thrilled me and motivated me to work harder. With every step I took on the back roads of San Antonio, I imagined I was on the final stretch of the 1500-meter gold medal race. Keino had begun his surge. Ryun was on his heels and I was about to make my move. I would let them take the lead, tire themselves out, and then I would begin my kick. The world-famous McRaven kick. No one could outsprint me in the final three hundred meters. No one.
Today’s race had taken its toll on me. The clock had beaten me. Maybe I was just a mediocre runner. Maybe I would never make the Olympics. Maybe none of this was worth it. I grabbed my gym bag and headed home.
“Bill, phone call!” Dad yelled from the other end of the house.
“Who is it?” I yelled back.
“I think it’s one of your coaches!”
Strange, I thought. I had just come home from Thursday track practice. Coaches didn’t say anything.
I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Bill?” came a vaguely familiar voice.
“Yes sir.”
“Bill, this is Coach Turnbow,” he said in a slow, soft Texas drawl. “How are you doing tonight?”
For a moment I was stunned. Coach Jerry Turnbow had been the assistant head football
coach at my high school. He had departed Theodore Roosevelt two years earlier to take a head coaching job at a school across town. To those of us on the track team, the high school football coaches were like minor gods. They molded the young men in pads who would lead the school to victory. Football was the only real sport in Texas. Track was just a diversion. And football coaches, well… football coaches never associated with those of us who ran in circles. Besides, I didn’t think Coach Turnbow even knew who I was.
I stumbled for a minute. “I’m fine, Coach,” I answered.
“Well, Bill, I hear you have one race left to break the school record. Is that right?”
Okay, now I was really amazed. How did he know that? Why did he even care? I was a miler on a track team, a track team that hardly anyone in the school knew we had and… the coach wasn’t even at the school anymore.
“Yes sir. I have one race left.”
“Bill, look now, son. You can do this. You can break that school record. All you have to do is run hard. Run hard and you can break that record. I know you can do it!”
“Yes sir,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll give it my best.”
“You do that, Bill.” He paused. “Well, good luck, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I hung up the phone and just sat on the edge of the bed. Coach Jerry Turnbow had just called me to wish me luck. Coach Turnbow!
Run hard, he said. Just run hard. I know you can do it!
Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.
“Run! Run!” Dippo yelled, sprinting through the infield, Morris on his heels.
I was swinging wide on the last curve. Two hundred yards to go. My lungs were screaming. My arms were pumping. My legs were churning. My kick was there.
“Faster! Faster! Faster!” the coach shouted, waving his arms in a circular motion.
Ahead was the finish line—a thin yellow tape marking the end of the race.
Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.
My eyes were glassing over from sweat. The pain had left me. The body was in runner’s shock. A wonderful feeling of numbness and euphoria, but it wouldn’t last. Any second now, the lactic acid building up in my body was going to cause my muscles to seize up, and the only thing that would get me across the finish line was pure willpower.
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