Air Force Eagles (62 page)

Josten raised his pistol and fired, the bullet shattering Price's forehead and blowing the back of his skull away. Josten jammed the hot barrel of the smoking revolver in Coleman's neck, saying, "Now ram them, or I'll do the same to your friend."

Fitz, suddenly believing, nodded shocked agreement as Coleman stared back in horror at Price slumped in the seat, blood from the massive wound pouring across the gray leather. His body quivered once, his arms and legs drawing up in a defensive spasm. Then he was still.

Fitz began talking to Josten. "Look, we don't have to ram them. We're faster and more maneuverable than they are. I'll come in on top of them, and slice their rudder off with my prop. That will send them in, and we can land on one engine if we have to."

Josten, suddenly aware that Lyra would now live on without him, yelled, "All right, try it. If it doesn't work, then by God we'll ram them." He wondered if Riley could be on board the Catalina—he was a friend of the Negro, that would be perfect.

Marshall had the flying boat in a turn, surveying the yellow chaos below, when Bandfield called, "Bones, isn't that a blue bus in the middle of the park with the Klan guys?"

Below them, in a panel truck near the bus, Ruddick saw the tide of white and yellow surging toward him. He stepped out, waving his arms. "Stop, you're not hurt. Stop . . ." He grabbed the first man to reach him, pulled him to the truck. As the crowd cascaded around them, the truck an island in the sea of fleeing men, the Storm Klanner looked at him in panic, pulled the ceremonial dagger from its sheath, thrust it in Ruddick's side, and ran on. Pain rippling through him like sheet lightning, unable to understand the panic or the stabbing, Ruddick staggered from the truck and fell. The next wave of stampeding Klanners trampled him into the asphalt, their cleated boots crushing his aquiline nose, grinding his glasses into those forever cold blue eyes, stilling his melodious voice.

A thousand feet above Ruddick's broken body, the Catalina circled, as Roget called, "Hey, that little bug-smasher's making a run on us. We better get out of here."

Marshall yelled, "Bandy, you call Little Rock and tell them where the bus is. Hadley, keep your eye on the C-45. Think he's got any guns on that thing?"

Bandfield twisted in his seat. "Doubt it, but we'll find out in a minute, he's easing in above us. Shit, I can't see him anymore!"

Roget called out, "I got him, he's high on our starboard side, closing in. Looks like he's trying to ram us . . . gimme a steep left turn, John!"

"He's edging back in, about four hundred feet out, maybe fifty feet low. Why don't you get down on the deck, keep him from getting underneath us where we can't see him."

The stench in the Beechcraft had become intolerable; in death Price had lost control of his bowels and bladder. Fitz turned to Josten. "I'm getting sick. Can't we just go in and land?"

Josten cocked the pistol and pressed it to Coleman's head. "Ram him or chop his rudder off, one or the other, or I'll kill Coleman, and then you."

Coleman's lips barely moved as he whispered, "Do what he says, Fitz."

The pilot had already pushed the props and mixture forward; now he came in with the throttles, easing in closer, level with the Catalina.

Bandfield, neck sore from swiveling around trying to see the Beechcraft, said, "There's a bridge coming up, Bones, just chop the power and land this thing, put it down on the river. If they haven't got any guns, they won't be able to hurt us>"

Marshall's face was contorted in a snarl. "Bullshit, I'm going to nail this guy. Bandy, on the count of three, hit the JATO bottles. Hadley, when we get above them, yell, and we'll dump the water."

The PBY was at maximum power, jets of black smoke streaming from its exhaust as the C-45 moved in closer, its prop edging toward the Catalina's rudder.

Marshall's voice was brittle as he called, "One, two, three!"

"JATO on!"

As soon as he felt the surge of the JATO rockets, Marshall hauled back on the control column, pulling the Catalina's nose up. In the C-45, Fitz instinctively chopped the power to avoid a collision as the flying boat sailed above them, climbing at a thirty-degree angle.

Roget yelled, "Water away!" and Bandfield toggled the switch.

The second four hundred gallons rolled out of the Catalina's belly in a billowing cloud, inundating the Beechcraft with a gleaming yellow smear that covered the windscreen in a glaucous haze.

Fitzpatrick keyed his mike. "Little Rock tower, this is Beech Five Five; we got an emergency here, I'm going to need a ground-controlled approach. I can't see a damn thing."

As he spoke he saw the manifold pressure flicker and the rpms surge on first the left, then the right, engine as their induction systems choked on the aluminized water. Power dropped away and he lowered the nose to keep his airspeed.

Josten pounded on the back of Fitz's seat. "Faster. Get them."

Fitzpatrick shook his head. "Shut the fuck up, you Kraut bastard."

Josten looked at Fitzpatrick with hatred and raised his pistol to fire just as the Beechcraft hit the center pylon of the bridge in a massive explosion.

In the circling Catalina, Roget called, "My God, he hit the bridge."

Marshall, exultant, pounded the cockpit coaming, yelling, "How did you like that, Coleman? That one was for Dave Menard."

Bandfield called Little Rock tower and told them about Lyra in the van. It took a half-dozen transmissions before the tower operator could believe what Bandy was saying and agree to get someone out of the blue bus.

At the moment of the Beechcraft impact, Weissman and Riley had worked their way to the field where Josten's bus was parked. The remnants of the Klan ignored them as they streamed toward their waiting trucks, anxious only to get out of there, to get rid of their yellowed uniforms and robes.

Weissman was carrying a massive five-foot-long crowbar. He handed it to Riley. "You pop the door open, and I'll go in first; if Josten's there I'll kill him."

They crept to the bus and waited. There was no sound from inside. Riley jammed the crowbar in the door by the lock and heaved; the door popped open and Weissman flung himself inside. Lyra's first bullet caught him in the shoulder, the second went into the walnut paneling above his head, just as Riley yelled, "Lyra, don't shoot, it's me."

Weissman slumped to the floor in pain, wondering where Josten was. He realized they all were safe when Riley and Lyra embraced, the two children clinging to Riley's legs. As his shoulder throbbed with pain, he thought, Weissman the Wounded—that's too much.

Bandfield had called ahead, and when the Catalina pulled into the line at Little Rock Air Force Base, the base commander and a raft of staff officers and Air Police were waiting.

Colonel May shook his hand and said, "Bandy, we just got a call from Colonel Riley; he said to tell you that he has his wife and children and is on the way to the base."

"Thank Christ—did he say they were okay?"

"He didn't say—but he was gibbering with happiness, so I guess they are. Now tell me about this crazy business with the Air Guard C-45."

Marshall grabbed Bandfield's arm. "Can we do it on the way in? I want to get Saundra."

"You go ahead—I'll wait here for Riley. Okay, Dick?"

May nodded and Marshall edged the driver out of the seat. He waved, then burned rubber as he left the flight line, wondering if Saundra would come with him.

The streets were deserted. Two hours before, they had been streaming with the Ku Klux Klan—now they were empty. Marshall felt strangely comforted that he was in an Air Force car; it might help if he encountered any yellow-stained Little Rock policemen.

As he turned into Maynard Street he saw that his bombing had been right on the money; the dye had spread across the street and the park, but none of the houses on the block had been hit.

Most of the homes were small and unpainted, and few had their house numbers visible, but Saundra had described Lucy Tate's place to him when they talked the week before. He recognized it at once—neatly painted green and white, a picket fence surrounding a flower-laden yard. As he eased in to park, the front door opened and Saundra flew down the steps to the street, throwing herself, trembling, into his arms.

He kissed her, then asked, "Are you all right?"

"Everybody is all right. It was you in that airplane, wasn't it? You water-bombed the Klan! I was never so proud of anybody in my life. They were going to kill us."

"I'm taking you back with me. You're not going to put yourself in danger like this again."

He didn't let her reply, enveloping her with his arms, closing her mouth with a kiss.

Behind her screen door, Lucy Tate looked out with approval, saying softly, "That's it, that's what she wants, man. You got her now, you take her with you!"

***

Author's Note

It is sad that the Korean War has truly been the forgotten war, for it signaled so many social, military, and political changes for the United States. Even though the most powerful enemy in the Korean War was China, the war's most important effect was the final polarization of the two great powers, the United States and the Soviet Union. In the process, the war forced a major rethinking on the role of the American military. Where in the past the country had depended upon a well-prepared Navy to defend its shores until a tiny Army and Air Force could be expanded to meet a threat, it was now evident that full-time professional military forces would have to be maintained permanently.

This book tries to tell the story of how the military coped with that changing situation, complicated as it was by both the growth in air and space technology and by social changes caused by the growing civil rights movement. Although there were still many individual instances of discrimination, the military services in general, and the Air Force in particular, led the way in implementing the changes in the law and in our social consciousness that the civil rights movement achieved.

Researching material for this book took several years and would have taken more had it not been for the remarkable contributions of a number of individuals who gave freely of their time to provide me with material or to review what I'd written for accuracy. I was particularly concerned that my portrayal of black characters be accurate, and my special gratitude goes to a friend and colleague, Colonel Tommy Daniels, USAF, who was untiring in finding knowledgeable people to help me. Tommy put me in touch with a number of Tuskegee airmen as well as other black officers who had served during the period and experienced the problems of the times. I am grateful to Major General James Whitehead, Colonel John Whitehead, Colonel Charles McGee, Lt. General Frank Peterson, and Lt. General William E. Brown, Jr., all of whom were helpful in the extreme. And among the Tuskegee airmen, I was, like anyone who knows him, inspired by their stalwart commander, Lt. General Benjamin O. Davis, Jr.

Because I was even more concerned about my depiction of a black woman character, I sought and received help from Captain Julia Barnes, NC USN (Ret), a wonderful lady who has been successful in both military and nonmilitary careers. Carlos Campbell was also helpful in reviewing material.

The issue of the treatment of prisoners has always been a haunting problem, and never more so than during the Korean War, when for the first time our soldiers and airmen were captured by hostile Communist forces. Colonel Walker "Bud" Mahurin, who scored twenty victories in World War II, scored four more in Korea before being shot down. I am indebted to him both for accounts of action in MiG Alley and for his hard-earned information on life in a Korean prisoner of war camp. Major General Frederick C. "Boots" Blesse, who scored ten victories in Korea, was also extremely helpful with insight into air combat. And former astronaut and Skylab commander, and now novelist, Dr. William R. Pogue filled me in on life in an F-84 outfit.

For the forest-fire fighting material, I am indebted to the dean of forest-fire fighting, Jack Wilson, of the Boise Interagency Fire Center, as well as to Fred Fuchs, of the U.S. Forest Service; George Patterson, of the Forest History Association; and Jonathan Jones, a forest-fire fighter.

Pearly Draughn, librarian of the Air Force Association, was always helpful, as was Paul Schlus of the Arkansas Air National Guard. And I want to thank Leo Opdycke for his insightful, if sometimes painful, commentary. I'm grateful, too, to Roy and Sandy Bradley for the information on Little Rock and its environs.

At Crown, I'm indebted to my editor James O'Shea Wade, his able assistant, Victoria Heacock, and to all the wonderful people who did so much to pull the book together. And, as always, I'm glad to have as my agent the gracious Jacques de Spoelberch.