Air Force Eagles (37 page)

Roget's scoops lowered and the bright-blue water cascaded inside, staggering the big amphibian as if an anchor had been thrown out. As the weight built, Bandfield felt the sloshing water shift the center of gravity back and forth, bucking the airplane like a rocking horse.

"Gotta have more tank baffling ..." Now the PBY was staggering nose high, the rear of its hull dragging the surface, airspeed dead-stopped at eighty, just below the point he needed to get airborne as the opposite shore loomed up.

"JATO coming on." His fingers stabbed the switches and, after a second's hesitation that lasted a lifetime, the rockets fired, lifting the PBY majestically into the air, water dripping from the hull.

Nothing was said on the way back. When they'd landed, Roget crawled forward and said, "Told you we needed that JATO. By God, I guess you'll learn to listen to me."

*

Frederick Air Force Base, California/
March 12, 1953

The B-47s sat on the ramp like acres of gigantic insects, their long slender wings drooping, sleek fuselages cocked nose high on the bicycle undercarriage. Each of the three squadrons of the 103rd Bomb Wing (Medium) were equipped with fifteen of them—and each bomber could carry more explosive power in its bomb bay than an entire wing of B-29s armed with conventional bombs.

The B-47s cost $3 million apiece and were the hottest airplane in the air, faster than most fighters. They were the backbone of the Strategic Air Command's evolving war plan, demanding of their crews—but trouble-prone and dangerous to fly.

Lieutenant Colonel Stan Coleman's assignment as commander of the 445th Bomb Squadron suited him perfectly. His experience in fighters made the transition training at McConnell Air Force Base easy, and he had quickly mastered the B-47. The fact that he had less flying time in bombers than anyone in the outfit was more than offset by the fact that he was an F-86 ace from Korea. Both the base and the command had been the first of Milo Ruddick's payments in kind.

Ginny had stayed in Little Rock. The story was that she was there to help manage the estate and no one cared enough to question the argument.

Coleman was a realist. He knew he had been lucky in F-86s and felt he'd earned the chance to relax a little, with a copilot to back him up and a radar-observer to navigate. He found that his salesman's personality fit into the general scheme of things at Frederick. The 103rd was run by a Colonel Williams, a World War II B-29 pilot who liked a good time and took care of his people. Guy and he had hit it off instantly—Williams loved to party, and the two of them would put on civvies and cruise the bars up and down Route 99. Coleman bowled the country girls over, and Williams was more than content to pick up on his rejects.

Now things were looking even better. Fitz had finally gotten over his anger about the Menard accident, after Coleman had persuaded him to for weeks—and bailed him out of two jams. When Fitz graduated from Wichita later in the month, he'd be his copilot. He was a perfect choice—skilled and discreet.

*

Manpo, Korea/March 13, 1953

U Eun Chur had come hesitantly into the room on the day following the beating, expecting to find Marshall dead. Yet his heart still beat in his frozen, broken body, and his breath came in rasping grunts. U brought in two armloads of thatching and a sheet of canvas; he lifted Marshall from the floor and laid him on it.

The next morning he checked again—the man was still alive. U Eun Chur brought in a bowl of warm water, washed Marshall's face and hands and sponged his lips. That afternoon he went to the kitchen as usual for the prisoner's chook ration. It was given without comment.

It was two days before Marshall, responding to a primitive urge for survival, was able to swallow the diluted gruel without even gaining consciousness; he lingered on, scarcely breathing. U Eun Chur undertook his care by default—no one else knew what to do. To his surprise, he found that he was no longer bullied and given the worst tasks to do. Instead, like the prisoner, he's simply ceased to exist.

In the camp there had been little reaction to Colonel Choi's beating of the American; prisoners were often beaten to death. But this man refused to die, becoming an embarrassment to all but U Eun Chur, the only Korean who'd shown Marshall compassion. If he had died, they would have known what to do—shovel him into some common grave. If he had been an ordinary prisoner, they might have taken him to the hospital. But as a prisoner who had ruined an officer's career, Marshall was an enigma, too dangerous to help, too threatening to kill, so his existence was ignored.

U was sitting by Marshall's side, puzzling about the rising tide of fear that permeated the camp. Joseph Stalin had died the week before and the entire Communist structure seemed to be reeling. The door to the hut creaked open and a North Korean captain stood before him with a pistol in his hand.

"Where is the Negro American?"

U pointed to Marshall, blood crusted around his nose and mouth.

The captain studied Marshall for a few moments, then screamed, "Get this man to the hospital. We need him for an exchange of prisoners." In that instant, Marshall's life had assumed value. The captain ordered U to stay at his side.

At the hospital the doctor gave him transfusions and intravenous liquids from captured American stocks. On the second morning, Marshall awoke to look into U Eun Chur's frightened eyes and slurred, "Where is Colonel Choi?"

U Eun Chur understood only "Choi," and he shook his head vigorously and pointed out the door. Then he ran to get the doctor.

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/June 30, 1953

It was a pleasure to see Josten work. The rough crowd that made up the Klan—mill hands, truck drivers, laborers—listened respectfully as Josten told them how close Hitler had come to winning, and what he would have done to the Jews and the nigras in America if he had not been betrayed by his army generals.

Pine Bluff was surrounded by thousands of acres owned by the paper companies, who harvested the timber. Most of the land was totally vacant, leased out to hunters, and dominated by clouds of savage mosquitoes. The Klan meeting was held on acreage Ruddick owned near the Arkansas River. Armed Klansmen blocked the access roads to keep out unwanted visitors, while the state police looked the other way. It was one of the many signs of Josten's organizational skills.

They were hanging on his words—his talks were really rewards for undergoing the tough discipline and training he demanded. As terribly injured as he had been, Josten now had the strength to work them all into the ground, roaming the drill fields, supervising rifle practice. They tolerated his brusque instructions, totally convinced that they were now working with "the real thing."

The German had done his homework. His speeches were studded with references to the Confederacy, to all the great fighters of the South; Lee, of course, and Stonewall Jackson—but also the irregulars like Nathan Bedford Forest and Quantrell. Listening to him one got the feeling that Lee had been Hitler's right-hand man, that Stonewall Jackson had led the thrust through France, that Rommel had charged at Gettysburg, and that Quantrell could still be found in the Alpine Redoubt.

He mesmerized them, speaking in cascading sentences, words piled upon words, emotions lashing emotions, the torches casting flickering shadows across his lean face, seeming to send sparks flying from his demonic eyes. He painted a clear picture, one they believed and understood, of noble white men defending their women against raping nigras led by grasping Jews. He never said nigger or Negro—always
nigra,
and with a Germanic snarl he turned Jews into
]uice.

Ruddick nudged Dixon Price in the ribs as Josten moved toward his conclusion, his hoarse voice brittle with intensity, saying, "Let me tell you a story, my comrades. In Munich, in 1923, a little band of men led by Adolf Hitler were shot down like dogs by the reactionaries of the German government. Yet only ten years later Hitler came to power in a new Germany!"

Josten let the facts sink in, saw the crowd grow tense with excitement, with the idea that they could gain control, be somebody.

"When Hitler began to expand the German armed forces, he brought with him the flag that had been with him at Munich, a flag that was stained with the blood of his comrades. It was called the 'Blood Flag of Munich,' and he used it to consecrate all of the banners of the newly formed units of the Army, of the Navy, and of the Luftwaffe."

Josten looked about, knowing that
consecrate
was a big word to use with this group of idiots.

"In this leather case, I have the original Blood Flag of Munich. And with the same flag that Adolf Hitler used to consecrate the flags of the German armed forces ..."

He turned and a huge silk flag carrying the Klan insignia was presented to him.

"So in the spirit of creating a new Blood Order, I consecrate the flag of the Pine Bluff Klaven—the first Storm Klan's flag!"

For a moment there was a shocked silence so profound that he could hear the sounds of frogs croaking on the river bank. Then there came a guttural roar from the crowd, a swelling joyous scream of approval that echoed across the field.

Josten carefully replaced the Blood Flag in the leather pouch, gave the raised-hand salute of the Nazis, and left the podium, going directly to a car where Ruddick and Price were waiting to take him to the next meeting, outside of Little Rock.

"Helmut, this Storm Klan idea is working like monkey glands on the old guard."

"Yes, but there's not much we can do with the older members; they're too set in their ways. The only way to rejuvenate the movement is with new recruits."

Driving slowly through the admiring crowd, some of whom pressed their faces against the glass to get a closer glimpse of Josten, Ruddick said, "Recruitment's not a problem now. We could sign up a thousand men tomorrow. You've got the people excited!"

"You all had me going, I swear I was ready to jine up myself." Excited, Price had dropped his usual crisp accent, lapsing into his native Texas drawl.

Josten responded, "Let's not be hasty. I'd rather keep the numbers low for a while. Let's insist on high standards of physical fitness, perhaps even require a high school diploma for eligibility to become a Storm Klanner."

Ruddick nodded quietly to Price, then said, "Helmut's created a new initiation ceremony, one like the SS used. We'll give the candidates ceremonial knives; at the initiation we'll slash their fingers and have them touch them to the flag."

Dixon slapped his thigh, laughing. "That'll get 'em. Why is it that blood and knives appeal so much?"

"They appeal to brutes, and brutes are what we want."

Ruddick drove swiftly on the two-lane road, delighted to see his idea taking shape, pleased that Josten and Price were getting on well.

Price asked, "What about the older Klan members? Can we still use them? Aren't they jealous?"

Josten nodded to Ruddick to speak. "The older men are jealous, but we'll keep them, even let them wear the robes to cover their fat bellies. But the young ones, we'll give them spiffy new uniforms."

"Like the SS?"

Josten shook his head. "No—too provocative. We'll take the Arkansas State Trooper uniform and dress it up. The Storm Klan will have a white band around the hats and arms—signifying purity, of course—and silver-colored insignia. We'll make that close to the SS, use an S and a K, done like lightning bolts."

Ruddick chimed in, "And they'll have short hair, like the troopers wear."

Tired, Josten leaned back in the seat. "No, even shorter. We'll crop it to the skin, like the German students used to do."

They came to a railroad crossing where an L&N freight train rattled by. Ruddick turned, saying, "Helmut, these ideas are too good. Dixon and I don't think we need to wait. We'll lose time if we don't expand the Storm Klan as soon as we can. Who knows how long we can keep them interested?"

Josten shook his head.

"No. Let the word spread first. It will make the Storm Manners seem so immensely desirable that you'll have to turn hundreds away." He was quiet for a moment, then went on, "Let's get the Storm Klan completely indoctrinated, ready to die for the cause. They'll become the elite SS while the Klan will remain the SA. I don't want to dilute the results by expanding too fast."

Ruddick gave in, as he realized he was beginning to do in every instance to Josten. He was going to have to talk this over with Dixon. The caboose passed, the gates lifted, and they drove on in silence.

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/July 4, 1953

Ruddick was sitting with his hand over the receiver when Dixon Price came in, red-faced, collar soiled with sweat and tie askew, strutting like a banty rooster.

"It's the governor. As usual." The governor got uneasy when Price wasn't immediately available and kept tabs on his whereabouts by phone.

Price rolled his eyes and took the phone while Ruddick went over to the weathered leather couch; if it had been a client, he would have left the room, but he and Price went back too far for such niceties. As he listened, he watched Price closely.

"Yes, Governor, I understand what you mean. But if you'll recall, I told you that I was working on that, and I'm going to talk to Milo about that just this minute."

Price was five-feet four-inches tall and had weighed the same 125 pounds since he was in high school. His thinning white hair covered his sun-pink bald spot like a thin smear of frosting on a strawberry cake. Small but mighty, Ruddick thought. In thirty years of politics, Price was the smartest, toughest man he'd ever met, and he was profoundly grateful that they'd always been on the same side. After the war, as soon as the oil business had come off, Price had come to Little Rock and set up his own law firm. He'd never run for political office himself, but he'd insinuated himself into state politics from the start. He'd been the primary reason the governor had been elected, and for the past two years he had practically run the state.