Monthly Archives: February 2017

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Six

Andrew Johnson knew the last leg of his train trip home to Tennessee in March of 1869 was not going to be pleasant as a new conductor entered the car at the depot in Wytheville, Virginia. The conductor tucked his little wooden box containing tickets and cash under his right arm. He glowered at the passengers. Johnson observed the man’s pinched thin lips, his pepper gray hair peeking from under his blue conductor’s hat. His slender body was straight as a lonesome pine in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The former president assumed the posture was the result of imperiously following railway regulations to the letter. The conductor demanded exact change from soldiers wearing Union uniforms, but persons with distinct Southern drawls received a large smile, and miraculously he found change at the bottom of his little box for them.
When Johnson had left Washington City that morning, his daughter Martha insisted that he have proper change for all his tickets and even packed a small lunch for him. Johnson found the conductor on the first train to be quite cordial. He even told the former president that he would bend the rules to allow him to smoke his cigar, even though this was a non-smoking car, as long as he had a window seat and politely tipped his ashes out in the morning air. After all, the conductor explained to him, this idea of having a separate car for smoking had only begun since the end of the war, and passengers must be given time to adjust to the changes.
All of that changed when the new conductor joined the train at Wytheville. By the time he stopped by Johnson’s seat, the former president had taken out his change purse and was counting out the coins.
“I hope you don’t think just because you used to be president you don’t have to pay your train fare,” the man said in an icy tone, which made his Appalachian accent more pronounced.
“No, of course not,” Johnson replied in his humblest and most respectful voice. As he handed the conductor the coins he smiled innocently. “I hope I counted that out right. I never learned arithmetic until after I was married.”
The conductor grunted as he counted the money twice, very slowly. “Very well.” He began to walk away, but he turned for one last glower of the former president’s pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket and patting his other pockets to find a match. Swinging around, he raised his voice. “This car don’t allow no smokin’.”
Johnson could feel his infamous anger rising from his stomach, but forced it down. Whatever anyone might think of him, he prided himself on being considerate of the feelings of the common people, including the ones sharing the train coach on the long ride to Greeneville. They did not need the stifling atmosphere of anger created when a former president would lose his temper.
“Of course, sir.” He put his cigar away and stared out the window, preferring to concentrate on the reunion with his wife Eliza. She had stayed by his side in Washington City during the ordeal of impeachment and trial in the summer of 1868. Her tuberculosis grew worse and forced her to return to their home in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains where the air eased her breathing. His daughter Martha stayed in the Capital to act as his official hostess. His son-in-law David Patterson was one of the senators from Tennessee, so Martha actually spent most of her time with her husband and their family. Johnson felt quite alone.
His first action after the trial was to inquire discreetly with the national Democratic Party leadership if they would support him in his bid to run for a term as president in his own right. Democrats fought valiantly to keep the Republican majority from removing him from office, Johnson reasoned, and therefore might be willing to support him again. Unfortunately, they informed him the mood of the country was against him. Northern voters clearly saw him as one of the last vestiges of the old southern order of White supremacists. Instead, they nominated a less well known, less controversial Democrat to oppose the Republican candidate Ulysses S. Grant, whose victory over the South had made him a mythic hero. The general won the presidency easily.
Johnson could not help but think about how at one time he had appointed Grant to replace Stanton. Within a few months Stanton convinced Grant to abdicate his post, leaving it open for Stanton’s return. But Johnson could not hold a grudge. Hell, he told himself, he even smiled and shook hands at the Executive Mansion Christmas reception with Benjamin Butler who had been one of the leaders in the impeachment proceedings. If Grant had attended the party, Johnson would have shaken his hand too. So when Grant declined to ride in the same carriage to the inauguration, Johnson was a bit surprised but followed his inclinations not to encourage bitter feelings. He remained at the Executive Mansion, and when the news came that Grant had been sworn in, he quickly left for the train station. Perhaps it was just as well he had forgone the ceremony because Stanton surely must have attended. He was the one person Johnson could not have forced himself to greet cordially.
The fact that Stanton would never face legal consequences for his acts of treason and betrayal stuck in Johnson’s craw. The little evil man’s only punishment would be to fade into history, hopefully as only a minor footnote in the accounts of the American Civil War. Johnson felt a tinge of his old craving for alcohol, which he had always used to ease his uncontrollable hatred for Stanton. Johnson closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. If he had learned anything through the ordeal, which began the night of Lincoln’s assassination, it was that alcohol never solved any problems. It only made matters worse.
A train whistle roused him from his inner thoughts. Johnson looked out the window to see that the train was pulling into the station at Greeneville. He smiled as he recognized faces of old friends who had never given up on him, going back to the days when he was nothing but an illiterate drunkard with no skills or ambitions. When he learned how to be a tailor, Johnson could count on these the people to bring him cloth they had made themselves so he could turn it into a pair of pants or a coat. He accepted their payment of fifty cents gratefully. The pennies added up, and he found hope for a better life for his family. They encouraged him to run for public office, voted for him and applauded when he won elections. And they never believed the lies told about him during the impeachment.
After the train jerked to a stop, the conductor made his way down the aisle to Johnson’s side and informed him he could leave now. “There’s a crowd out there. Don’t know why.” The man’s pale, wrinkled face did not move a muscle.
“Thank you, Mr.—excuse me, what was your name again? I can’t seem to keep a name in my head anymore.”
“Fisher, sir, Edgar Fisher.”
“Mr. Fisher, thank you so much.” Johnson stood and shook the man’s hand vigorously. “You’ve made the trip mighty comfortable.” He looked up and down the length of the train car, watching the other passengers gather their belongings to leave. He held on to the conductor’s hand. “Mr. Fisher, I must assume you had sons in the Confederate Army during the war. East Tennessee suffered during that tragedy, now didn’t we?”
“I had two boys.” He paused to keep his voice from cracking. “Only one came back.”
“That weighs on my heart more than anything else. To know a neighbor’s boy died at the hands of men that I sent to war. I don’t know how I will ever atone.” Johnson heard his own voice crack, and he was not ashamed of it.
Slowly Fisher raised his other hand to clasp their grip. “My boy who made it home—he always told me if you ever got on one of my trains I should throw you off.”
Johnson guffawed and slapped the man’s back. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you did. The last few years have been mighty rough times, ain’t they?”
“Mighty rough times.” He paused as a small smile crept across his lips. “I suppose North and South have been mighty grieved, Mr. President.”
Johnson looked around again to see that they were alone. “Now which way would you like for me to skedaddle, Mr. Fisher?”
The conductor nodded to the left. “That way will take you out to where most of the folks are waiting for you, sir.”
“Well, you lead the way, Mr. Fisher.”
The conductor escorted him to the exit but paused at the landing and stepped back. “The next time I see my son I’ll tell him he was all wrong about you, Mr. Johnson. You’re a good man, sir, and I won’t mind telling my son that.”
Johnson stopped just inside the door because he knew as soon as the crowd saw him, they would yell and applaud, ending this pleasant moment. “Where do you all hail from, Mr. Fisher?”
“Morristown, sir. And call me Edgar, sir. I’d be proud to wait on you, Mr. President, if you ever ride one of my trains again.”
He stepped forward and as the gathering erupted with cheers he shook the conductor’s hand again. Johnson waved both arms to greet the townspeople. Johnson paused a moment as the cheering continued. He felt good getting back to the basics of politicking, turning a doubter into a supporter with nothing more than a big smile and a touch of thoughtfulness. Perhaps, after a short period of recuperation, he would try to run for senator, or some other fool nonsense.

James Brown’s Favorite Uncle Chapter Five

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Music in the Pacific

Some troops had assignments. Others were sent to a refurbished old Anglo-Indian (English Army) camp on a small lake some miles north of Bombay to await assignment orders. I received orders to take said troops to the camp. It was not to prove good duty. I think it was a foul-up. I was Air Corps. We went up by bus and cheap. There were about 200 troops. I, a second lieutenant, was in command.
The facilities were old, dilapidated, some falling down. We were able to fix some of them to use as a headquarters, supply, and a mess hall. We erected regular Army-type squad tents to house our troops.
The lake was small and dirty from non-use. Its shoreline was overgrown with tall grass which we would have to clear out and trim. Big problem. This was cobra country, and they live in this tall grass. But the job had to be done. On the morning duty call, the troops would do almost anything to get out of the grass clearing detail.
It did not take me long to find out I had been assigned a lot of misfits, goof-offs, and troublemakers. However, the grass-clearing detail proved to be one of my answers. If someone even looked the wrong way, I assigned him to the grass cutting detail. They killed several cobras, but no one ever was bitten. We got the job done. The lake started clearing up. We started building a decent U.S. Army compound.
In time my orders came through for me to report to the Bengal Army Air Corps base several miles north of Calcutta, which was housed in an old Indian plantation warehouse. Here I would await my final orders. All field grade officers were housed together in one huge room in the warehouse. Sleeping on cots, sharing latrines and all facilities which were outside, a big room they called the mess hall. The WACs (ladies) were housed in another section of the same huge warehouse. No place to play ball. No place to hang out. No telephones. Boring as hell.
Up until then, the CBI theater was not a Washington priority. The Japanese controlled most of the airspace and most of Burma and China. There were only two passes through the mountains from Burma into Western China. One north from Chabua Assam, at 13,000 feet high and covered with snow and the other from the Burma town of Myikini (we called it Michinaw) north of Rangoon.
Chabua Assam was a small, very independent area where the borders of Tibet, Northwestern China and Burma meet. It had been founded many years back in the days when England controlled India’s rice and tea which were its staple agricultural products. Assam soil proved to be ideal for growing and processing tea leaves. The planters had retained the old English pride and lifestyle. The people living in Assam hated just about everybody except us Americans. They helped us build an air base at Chabua.
The American Flying Tigers still held out against the Japanese in Kunming. The Army Air Corps held an air base in Chentu, China, and a base/hospital in Michinaw where our two engine transporters could supply our Western China bases. The famous Merrill’s Marauders and their mules operated and were supplied out of Michinaw on their undercover foray into the jungles of Southern Burma.
Finally my time arrived. I was scheduled for my meeting with the general in his Calcutta headquarters. He was much too busy to bother with me, but remembered and set things in motion. There had been no concentrated plan/effort between the Army, Air Force, Navy and Marines concerning music and entertainment. A few USO shows had played India, but each service did its own thing. So the general decided to do his thing.
At a staff meeting, 2nd Lt. Hal Neely was directed to plan, direct and supervise the Army Air Corps music and entertainment program. My first priority would be to do something for the troops in Assam, China and Burma. I was dispatched to Chabua Assam, to discuss it with a Col. Peterson and his staff. Col. Peterson was from the little town of Oakland, seven miles south of Lyons, and had been the governor of Nebraska. He knew my dad. He also knew of me when I had my kid dance band in Lyons. He greeted me warmly and asked about my dad.
The first priority on the agenda was the problem of the huge tonnage of mule feed (special mix of corn, oats, molasses) our C-47s were flying in to Michinaw for Merrill’s Marauders. Something needed to be done. The colonel had me stand up and introduce myself to the gathering.
“This is Lt. Hal Neely. I knew his dad. He’s a farm kid.” (Me, a farm kid?)
He suggested they send me down to Michinaw to look into this mule feed problem. I was placed on temporary duty and caught the next morning C-47 mule feed flight to Michinaw. I had no preconceived ideas, plan … no notion of how or what to do (as my dad had always told me, “son, when in doubt, punt”).
I checked in at the Michinaw Airport. They had had a jeep waiting for me, a billet assigned me in the officers tent, but no other instructions. I decided to watch the unloading of mule feed burlap sacks, 50 pounds each, from the plane into big Army trucks driven by black quartermaster GIs. There were four trucks. I tagged along behind and followed. The roads south into Burma took a fork, the left fork led to the mule loading area. I parked my jeep under a palm tree at the fork of the road. The first truck went left; the second truck went right, third truck left, fourth truck right. It did not take me long to guess what was happening, but I would have to be damn right.
I knew about the habits of most of the blacks I had known back in Nebraska and in my early days in the corps. When it was hotter than Hades in the mid-day summer heat they sacked out until it cooled off. I waited an hour or so, then drove into their tented barracks area. Only a very few black souls were in the sack. One a big fat mess sergeant was in the mess hall, so I sort of wandered around. No one questioned me. I did discover a worn trail leading off into the jungle from the area. There was a sweet smell in the air. I went back to the base, checked in and asked for an MP to accompany me the next day. No one questioned me.
The next day I again met the C-47 from Chabua. Mule feed sacks again. By now I had something summed up, one for them, one for us. But why? In hot Burma it was the standard routine to take a break at noon until 2 p.m. I left the MP in my jeep. I began to roam around. I went in to talk to the mess sergeant. I introduced myself and told him I was on a general inspection tour of the base facilities. He was edgy, noncommittal. I took the MP and walked down the jungle trail. In about 100 yards there was a clearing with three tents. One tent had a big boiling kettle steaming away giving off a sweet, tantalizing odor. As a kid I had seen this before in Nebraska. They were making moonshine. The mules feed made an excellent mash. GIs were lined up with their tin mess cups. In the other two tents were Burmese-Indian girls “doing business.” For $.30 you could get a shot of moonshine and a girl. Pretty good deal. My problem. What would be the best/smart thing for me to do? I had one hellava moral problem.
The MP and I only observed. We did not talk to anyone. I went back to my billet and discussed the problem with a captain at base headquarters. He agreed with my assessment. Do something, but keep it unofficial. The black quartermaster truck drivers had a rough assignment and were not yet fully accepted in the war zone by the white troops. It was agreed we should cut the mule feed tonnage by one third which would be acceptable; two trucks for Merrill, one truck for the quartermaster truck drivers who had no other recreation. I reported by phone to Col. Peterson. He approved the plan.
I was ordered to stay in Michinaw for a spell and make a plan for our music and entertainment in our China/Burma program. The hope/plan was to open a Burma Road from Chubua into Chintu, Western China, by the way of Michnaw. I checked into special services as an assistant, and I flew into Chintu and Kunming. Not much to do in Michinaw. We played ball a lot. The base had a good hospital staff with WACs and nurses. Again as usual, I looked around and formed a small band. Not bad. Every Saturday night we played a shindig at the officers club. There was always booze in the officer’s club.

Toby Chapter Five

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That night Harley hurriedly applied his makeup making a mishmash of his rosy cheeks and dotting his face with freckles anywhere the grease pencil happened to alight. Even his wig, a shock of unruly red hair, was askew. When all was in approximate position on his head he rushed to the edge of the curtain where Sam, dressed in his white good cowboy clothes and Ed, impeccably attired in shiny black, were peeking through the curtain.
“Town marshal’s here tonight with his family,” Ed announced. “Be good, boys. Old man Massengale can be a mean old cuss.”
Harley’s head shot up. “Massengale? Did you say Massengale?”
“I see he didn’t bring his little girl with him this time,” Ed continued, ignoring Harley’s question.
Sam punched Harley in the side. “Her name wouldn’t happen to be—“
“Billie,” Harley filled in.
“Yep, Billie,” Ed confirmed. He looked through the curtain again. “Boy, that son of his, Burnie, sure got big.”
Harley pushed past Ed to peek through the curtain. “Let me see.” As he peered through the small slit, his eyes focused on two men. One looked like a giant, with a big amiable grin on his face. Sitting next to him was a large middle-aged man who shifted in his seat scowling. Harley pulled away slowly.
“Don’t tell me Burnie is the mountain sitting next to the man who looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon all day.” Harley’s worst fear was about to be confirmed.
“That’s him,” Ed said.
Sam let out a soft “ooh” before saying, “And the man’s who’s been sucking on the lemon all day is his father, right?”
“Right.”
Sam patted Harley on his slender shoulder. “Oh, Harley, when you pick ‘em, you pick ‘em.”
***
In the solitude of the Massengale house, Billie quickly packed a suitcase. She picked up the hand fan with Harley’s picture on it and kissed it, leaving an impression of her red lipstick. Billie then tossed it into the suitcase. At the last moment she grabbed from the suitcase a dress she had just packed, tossed it aside and replaced it with a dress with a few more frills on it. Unfortunately she did not notice the hand fan fell out of the luggage and on to the floor. Clicking it shut, Billie carried it with determination out of the house and down the street to the show tent on the outskirts of town.
Waiting in the shadows, she watched her friends and neighbors leave the show and go home. Finally she saw her mother, father and brother walk out, get into the Model T and drive away. Finally, Harley, dressed in another sporty suit, came out and looked around. Billie grabbed her bag and ran to him.
***
After a big hug and kiss, Harley helped her into Mr. Fox’s car and they drove into Cameron. She directed him to the home of her family minister. As they walked up the sidewalk, Harley looked at her askance.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a mountain for a brother?”
“Burnie?” Billie replied in amazement. “Why, I told you about him. I said he was a lamb.”
“Lambs aren’t seven feet tall.”
“Silly,” she said, dismissing the accusation. “Burnie’s not seven feet tall. Only six foot five.”
Harley rang the doorbell.
“And you didn’t tell me your father was town marshal. Town marshals carry revolvers.”
“Not Daddy.”
“Thank goodness for small wonders.”
The Rev. Mr. Cole opened the door. “Yes? Why, Billie Massengale, what are you doing out this time of night?”
Billie turned to Harley. “He prefers a shotgun.”
Harley moaned before explaining the situation to Pastor Cole who invited them into his parlor. He left them there as he walked down the hall to his bedroom.
“Mother! Come here! We’ve got a wedding! Guess who it is?”
Billie looked a little bit guilty. “I guess I wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry. It’s just that—if I told Mama and Daddy I wanted to marry you and leave Cameron—well, by the time they’d given their permission you’d be gone on to the next town.”
“I’d come back for you.” Harley smiled sweetly.
“I was afraid you might find someone you liked better.”
He hugged her. “I could never find anyone I liked better than you.”
They kissed just as the preacher and his wife came in the parlor.
“Billie Massengale!” Mrs. Cole exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”
The pastor turned to his wife. “I forgot my Bible. I’ll be right back.”
“Before we make this permanent, do you have any other secrets, like your mother is a hatchet murderer?”
“No.” She giggled. “Oh, I do like to sneak a beer every once in a while.”
“I can live with that.”
Rev. Cole returned and efficiently conducted the wedding ceremony. His wife cried as the young couple kissed again. The pastor cleared his throat.
“That’ll be five dollars, son.”
“Oh yeah.” Harley fumbled with his pockets. “I don’t seem….” He stopped in the middle of his search with an awful look of recollection. “Oh yeah. I gave someone five dollars for the chewing gum wrapper I wrote the message on that I sent you last night. I forgot about that.”
Billie patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I got paid today.” She took a bill from her purse to pay Rev. Cole.
“I hope we did the right thing, Billie.” Mrs. Cole tossed a nervous glance Harley’s way. “Your parents are going to be fearful upset in the morning.”
No one had looked at Harley that way since he was still a kid trying to get out of working in the fields. He felt terrible. Billie smiled and hugged him.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”
***
In the morning Mrs. Massengale was in the kitchen cooking a big breakfast for her husband and son. Mr. Massengale needed to keep up his energy during the day as he maintained law and order in Cameron. And his son Burnie ate a lot just because he was so big. The aromas lured the menfolk to the kitchen but Billie didn’t show, which was unusual. Even though she did not like a big breakfast she did enjoy a piece of toast and a cup of hot coffee as she chatted with her family. If she were late to work Mrs. Harmon would be mad.
“Well,” Mr. Massengale said, “she was already in bed when we came home last night, so she didn’t need any extra sleep.”
Mrs. Massengale frowned, took her apron off and headed for the door. “I think I better check on her.”
“I think I’ll go ahead and get started on my bacon and eggs, if you don’t mind, Ma,” Burnie said as he began to shovel food in his mouth.
Billie’s mother rapped lightly at her door. When there wasn’t an answer, Mrs. Massengale turned the knob and entered the bedroom. Billie was not there. The bed had not been slept in. Quickly she checked her closet, and half of Billie’s clothes were gone and so was her suitcase. Finally she spied the fan from the tent show. The picture of the actor on the fan was covered with her daughter’s shade of lipstick. After a moment, when the situation dawned on her, Mrs. Massengale screamed. Her husband ran into the room.
“What’s the matter, Lou?”
“Billie’s run off with that stupid, silly actor!” she cried, waving the fan in his face.
He turned to yell down the hall. “Burnie! Get the shotgun!”
***
At the tent grounds, Harley and Billie held hands as they walked backstage. He pointed up.
“And that’s what we call a roll drop. It’s kind of like a curtain and it has a scene painted on it. We have several so we can change backgrounds real fast.”
“It’s all so new and exciting.” Billie said in awe. “I guess I’ll get used to it, eventually.”
The quiet happy moment ended abruptly when Mr. Massengale’s voice cut through the morning air.
“Harley Sadler! Come out here right now with my daughter!”
“Yeah!” Burnie added ominously.
Harley was not naïve. He knew this moment would come eventually, so he tightened his grip on Billie’s hand, lifted his chin and walked through the curtain onto the stage to face his irate new in-laws. It did not encourage him to see Mr. Massengale standing there with his shotgun firmly in his hands. Burnie, with his fists clenched, looked like he could chew nails. Perhaps the worst of them was Billie’s mother whose eyes were red from all the tears. The lace handkerchief she daubed her moist cheeks with was sopping wet. Harley put on his best open, innocent Toby grin.
“Hello, Mrs. Massengale. Good morning, Mr. Massengale.” He paused to wave at Billie’s brother. “Hi, Burnie!”
“Oh no!” the mother cried.
“Everything’s fine, Mama,” Billie tried to soothe her. “I’m fine. “I’m—I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”
“You ain’t old enough to know what happy is!” her father retorted.
“Yeah!” Burnie agreed.
“Yes, I am!” Billie defended herself.
“No, you’re not! Grown-up folk don’t go run off and get married and worry their mama to death!” her father growled.
Harley stepped forward. “You’re right, Mr. Massengale. It wasn’t very considerate of me to make your wife worry like that. Or upset you.”
“I ain’t upset!” he shot back.
“I’m upset!” Burnie said.
“Burnie, be quiet!” his father ordered.
“It’s just that….” Harley paused to collect his thoughts. He continued in a softer voice. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“That’s foolishness!” Mr. Massengale snorted.
Harley turned his attention to Mrs. Massengale. He smiled his sweetest smile and fluttered his eyelashes.
“Ma’am, how about you? Do you believe in love at first sight?”
She wiped tears from her eyes and blew her nose in her hanky. Looking at her husband, she smiled shyly. “Yes.”
“Good, ‘cause I do too.” A big grin exploded on Harley’s face.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Billie said. “He’s very good at making people laugh.”
“Hmph. Some talent.”
Mrs. Massengale put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Please, dear, listen.”
“I’m principal comedian for Mr. Fox.”
“That’s a very important position, Daddy.” Billie explained.
Harley felt his confidence growing. “And one of these days I’m going to have my own show. And I’m going to make Billie the star of that show!”
“Oh, Harley,” Billie sighed.
“And, Burnie, you could work for me. A big fella like you, you could help put up the tent, all over Texas, Oklahoma and New Mexico!”
“Gosh, do you really think so?” Burnie gasped in awe of the possibilities.
“And you, Mr. and Mrs. Massengale, you could come along with us, if you wanted to.”
Harley paused, dramatically turned and pointed to the Fox banner over the proscenium.
“And up there, where everybody could see it, will be my banner proclaiming: ‘Harley Sadler’s Own Show’!”

Cancer Chronicles

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Janet was at the Women’s March on Washington. That would seem impossible since she’s been dead a year, but nothing ever stood in her way.
Back in 1976 I bought her a necklace with a peanut hanging from it. Not a real peanut. It was made of brass or some inexpensive metal. We had our choice of plain peanut or one with a big toothy grin on it. We chose the plain. The toothy one could have been interpreted as disrespectful. Janet wore it quite a bit in the next four years in support of President Jimmy Carter. This was a show of courage since we lived in the heart of conservative Texas. She wasn’t afraid to let anyone know how she stood on the issues. She wore her peanut necklace with pride and smiled at the people whose mouths went agape when they saw what it was.
During the last year I have gone through her jewelry to distribute it. I thought of a friend who would appreciate it. She too isn’t afraid to express herself. When she opened the little box she immediately exclaimed, “It’s a Jimmy Carter peanut!” I had made the right choice. I knew for sure it was the right choice when she told me she was going to wear it when she went to Washington for the women’s march.
I asked my friend to have someone take her picture wearing the necklace, and she did. It was as though Janet were there. Even if cancer had not taken her, I don’t think she would have actually gone to the march. She didn’t like crowds and in the last few years her ability to walk long distances diminished. But she would have been encouraging the women every step of the way. Janet fought the establishment to have the job she wanted even though it was considered a “man’s” job.
This must be why I haven’t cried in the last year. She hasn’t really gone away.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Five

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Bruton took Baker by the armpit and led him out of the saloon and over two blocks. Baker hardly noticed all the night prowlers, some staggering like himself, others leaning against lampposts and having a smoke and a good laugh with friends. Baker felt Bruton’s hands against his back forcing him into a public privy. Right after he relieved himself, Baker went to his kneels to vomit violently into the toilet.
“Are you all right, my dear friend?” Bruton called from the outside.
“No,” he replied before another round of regurgitation. Baker became aware that the door opened and Bruton lifted him to his feet.
“You are ill,” he commented with concern as he pointed the older man toward the door of Louis Lesieur’s establishment. “The best cure for the queasy stomach is a glass of Louis’s best cognac.
Before Baker could disagree, his companion deposited him in a chair and left for the bar. He felt the room swirling, and his eyes would not quite focus which made the disorientation worse. His head was about to droop onto the table when Bruton appeared and placed a healthy portion of cognac in a cut-glass goblet in front of him.
“To your health, Mr. Baker; or do you prefer General Baker?”
The gurgling in his stomach returned, and the saloon felt unbearably hot. “Huh?”
“Never mind.” Bruton sat and took a sip of his cognac. “I’m still curious about the outrageous revelations you plan to announce in your hearing before Congress. What could be more shocking than the brutal mortality statistics of the war itself?”
“This is shit,” he barely articulated after a swallow of the cognac. It had the same appalling under taste as the English ale from their first stop. He pushed it away
“Louis will be insulted.” His young friend pushed it back. “Don’t embarrass me in the pub of my dear friend Louis. I will never live it down.”
Baker scowled as he obediently lifted the glass and drank it as though it were a homemade elixir for the three-day bellyache. He did not care how fine a lawyer this fellow claimed to be and how wonderful a legal defense he might provide. Baker was convinced he did not want to remain his friend, and he desperately wanted to be in the arms of his Jenny in their own home. If drinking all of this bitter libation would hasten the end of this evening, then so be it. He upended it and gulped the rest.
“Now tell me your scandalous news,” Bruton insisted.
“John Wilkes Booth is not dead.” His numbed lips formed each syllable with difficulty.
“I find that hard to believe.” The young man’s tone went flat, without expression.
“I saved his life. Gave him money to disappear out West. The killing had to stop.” A spasm shook his thick torso as another wave of nausea swept over Baker.
“Yes, I think it is time to go home.” Bruton lifted Baker from his chair and guided him out the door. He hailed a hack, gave the driver an address and settled the older man as comfortably as he could in the carriage seat.
Baker looked up from his slumped position and pleaded, “Take me to a doctor.”
Bruton leaned in and whispered, “I can’t do that, Mr. Baker.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to die.”
“What?” Baker was confused. Bruton no longer sounded like a Bostonian but a Southerner, not the Deep South but somewhere closer. And the voice was familiar, but he could not quite place it.
“You see, I am not attorney-at-law Roman Bruton. That’s a name and a backstory I just made up. I told you once you were no gentleman.”
His brain, almost anesthetized, came to an awful realization. “You’re Booth.”
“How brilliant of you,” Booth replied in glorious derision expressed like a dream through his Maryland inflection.
Frantically Baker tried to sit aright and lean toward. “Driver! Take me home!”
“But he is taking you home.” Booth firmly pulled him back. “I gave him your address. Because you spared my life I will allow you to die in the arms of your wife.” Booth laughed in self-indulgence. “My dear Mr. Baker, I know everything about you and Mr. Stanton and the entire stinking plan.”
“But—but I saved your life! Please let me live!”
“Oh, you have ingested enough arsenic tonight that there is no way you can survive beyond morning’s light.”
“But I’ve changed! You know I have changed! I’m a good man now!”
Booth put his arm around Baker’s shoulders to grip him. “Yes, I know. But you want to reveal to the world that I am still alive, and I cannot allow that.”

James Brown’s Favorite Uncle, The Hal Neely Story Chapter Four

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The time came for me to leave. They took me to Fremont where I caught the train to Chicago where I changed trains for Miami Beach. Mary, Herb, and Gertie headed back to Los Angeles. Trains were full. I had to stand much of the way. People were very courteous, however, and would share their seats so we could all get a little rest.
It was Sunday morning when we got into the Miami railway station. I caught an air corps bus to Miami Beach for this Sunday afternoon OCS check-in. I was in luck again. At rigid attention. Focusing straight ahead. The freshman class was going through the traditional hazing by the seniors. I had heard about this on the train. A senior class man recognized me from my Hollywood days, knew my name, tugged and pulled me through the line. I was assigned to Squadron 17, based in a small four-story hotel on a side street off the main drag. Most squadrons were based in the OCS small hotels on the main Miami Beach boulevard.
My room assignment was a corner room on the first floor. One roommate was Vic Hardin, an older guy from Southgate, California, who had been appointed squadron commander. It was the start of a close friendship that would last our lifetimes. The first two months were rough and tough, but also fun. We underclassmen were off on Sunday. After the first two months it was easier and we had some free time. I made a lot of new friends.
On December 28, 1944, I was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Army Air Corps with classifications of music officer, special services and intelligence. At that time, there was only one other music officer in the Army Air Corps. Capt. Glenn Miller had received a direct commission from the president, and most of his big hit band of musicians enlisted to serve under him. They were now stationed in London.

My first assignment was Malden Missouri Air Base, a basic flight training base southwest of Cape Giarardo. I caught a shuttle flight from Miami Beach to Malden. It was a nice, Midwest small town base. I fit right in. I was assigned to special services under Capt. Moss, a former owner/operator of movie theaters in Texas who had received a direct commission. He did not know squat about the military, but was a good man and boss. We had two nice local ladies working with me who ran the base USO service center. Mary sent me my cornet/ trumpet so the first thing I did was find some musicians on base and started a little six-piece band. From that day on, my horn was always with me, even overseas. I had always wanted to learn to fly, so off the record the instructors taught me. I loved it, but no wings.
In May I was transferred as music officer/special services to the Smyrna Army Air Corps base south of Nashville. Its Number Three runway was on land that had been owned by Alexander Neely, my great grandpa Neely’s brother who settled the land back in the 1880s when Nashville was formed. In the 1880s, three Neely brothers from West Virginia migrated to Tennessee. One settled in the fort in what is now Sumner County. William Neely, the oldest, helped found the city of Nashville and settled on a farm nearby. Thomas established a lumber business on the bend of the river. The village of Neely’s Bend is still a suburb of Nashville. I expected to be at Smyrna for a good tour of duty. I took over a nice little furnished apartment near the base from another officer who had received his overseas orders. I called Mary in LA. She took a leave from her job and was able to get on a train to Nashville.
A week later I got my orders for overseas to ship out of Hampton Roads. Mary would have to go back to Los Angeles. Hampton Roads was fun, nothing to do but play ball and go into town several nights a week, awaiting orders. Just to sack out and bum around. Again luck was with me. I got a “secret” visit from a captain. My mentor, the general, was now the Air Corps chief in the China-Burma-India (CBI) theater based in Calcutta. He wanted me to join his staff to be the Army Air Corps Music Officer and in charge of all USO and other shows performing for Air Corps troops in the CBI. I would also carry an extra G2 “undercover top secret assignment.” I readily agreed and would await my orders for transfer to the Norfolk Navy Base pending a projected early June sailing from Norfolk to the CBI.
I transferred to Norfolk. It was a fun several weeks. Most every soldier and airman was destined for Europe. Not much to do but have some fun. We were free and easy, awaiting ships. Norfolk was a very relaxed station. The orders came through. I would be booked on the SS General Hodges, the biggest and fastest troop carrier ship in the Navy, which would soon be departing from Hampton Roads. It was designed to be capable of sailing without escort.
We boarded. Bright, sunny, a typical Virginia summer day. By this time in the war, loading troop ships and convoy ships was sort of “old hat”. The Nazi subs were always out there, “but if luck held, you made it.” Almost everyone thought they were going to London for later assignment. I was one of the few on the special orders who knew the Hodges was bound for India. We departed, traveling alone without escort. A few hours out to sea, the ship’s captain came on the horn:
“Attention all personnel and troops, we are not going to London but to the China-Burma-India theater. We will land in Bombay, India. That’s the way it is. Your officers will instruct and help you to trade in your woolens for new khaki uniforms. Good luck.”
There was consternation and almost a riot, but good soldiers knew orders were to be obeyed. Everything was okay. The plan was to go through the Panama Canal, stop at Pearl Harbor, Wellington, New Zealand; Sydney, Australia and then on to Bombay, India. In the first officers meeting, we were assigned troop duties on a rotating basis. The Hodges housed the troops in five holds where they would live during the voyage. They would be restricted to a strict on-deck schedule where they could lounge around on deck. The rest of the time they were sacked out in their bunks, playing cards … all the things bored GIs found to do. Several times during the voyage I drew Hold Number Five on the bottom of the ship. It was loud, rocked with all the ship’s motion in inclement weather, and scary during a Japanese submarine attack of which there were several.
I had Hold Number Five duty one night. I always had a MP on duty with a submachine gun to keep order. No nonsense. We had a sub scare alert. They (the troops under my command) went “bonkers,” had claustrophobia, were scared, and wanted to get topside. The duty officer had orders to do whatever was necessary to keep order. I got it calmed down and order restored, but it was scary. I think it was my really first personal true test of courage.
As a music officer, I made a call for musicians, girl singers, dancers etc. so I could build two shows per day. We had placed instruments, lights, amplifiers etc. on ship for just such purposes. Part of the troops could come up each show. The ship ran with no lights at night. These were long nights in the holds–the forerunner for many of them later spent in foxholes. I was invited to sit on the bridge with ship’s officers on our way through the Panama Canal I got to go ashore in Pearl Harbor, Wellington, and Sydney. In Pearl Harbor, we did our show that afternoon for the Navy guys. By now we had a good polished show. It was appreciated. We docked in Bombay. A full Air Corps military band greeted us.

Toby Chapter Four

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When he awoke the next morning, he feared his romantic encounter with Billie was just a dream. But he had built his entire life on the premise that dreams did come true. Who would have thought a barefoot boy who grew up busting up dirt clods on a dusty West Texas farm would become a prosperous principal comedian of a popular traveling tent show? What even gave him the thought he could do that? He was a country hick. He did not know enough to realize that he could not do it.
As he dressed, brushed his teeth and shaved, Harley decided he would continue his blissful ignorance that a smart, pretty girl would run off, marry him and join the tent show. Nodding his head with confidence, Harley headed back to the Cameron city hall to propose to Billie right away.
He ran to Fox who was sharing a joke with a group of local businessmen.
“I need to borrow your car, Mr. Fox,” he interrupted before his boss got to the punch line. “Business, you know.”
Used to the young man’s eccentric personality, Fox pulled out the key, passed it to Harley, and finished his joke without missing a beat.
Once he was in downtown Cameron, Harley headed directly to city hall, pausing to peer through the large window. There was Billie, bright and bubbling. She smiled and nodded at an elderly woman at her post at the counter. Harley admired the way she seemed to put the woman at ease, even causing her to chuckle. As the customer turned to walk away, he decided this was his chance to secure his future. Taking a deep breath, Harley bustled through the door.
“We’ve got big problems at the tent grounds!” He marched directly to Billie. “As an official representative of the Roy E. Fox Popular Players Company I must speak to an official of the town of Cameron immediately!”
A large, foreboding middle-aged woman stood at her desk in the back of the office. She looked like she was ready to do battle, and Harley was frightened he had thrown down the gauntlet in front of the wrong person.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Harmon,” Billie interjected. “I think I can handle this.”
Grunting, the woman sat and returned her interest to a stack of folders in front of her. Billie looked around at Harley, scrunched her nose and winked.
“Now what exactly is the problem, Mr.—ah, I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Mr. Fox wants me to drive to Waco tomorrow to pick up some new costumes,” he whispered. “Do you want to go with me?”
“Oh, I think we can resolve that problem quite easily,” she replied in a loud official-sounding voice.
Mrs. Harmon looked up and, to Harley’s relief, smiled appreciatively and returned to her work.
“I couldn’t go that far in an automobile with a man unless he was my husband,” she said in a soft prudent Baptist tone.
“That can be arranged,” he answered in a hoarse voice.
Billie continued her conversation in an increased volume. “Excuse me, sir. But you’ll have to speak up.”
Harley reflexively reached for his throat. “It’s all the lines I have to say. Being principal comedian, I carry all the responsibility for the show so my voice just goes sometimes….”
“Yes.”
“Yes?!” Harley found his voice for an instant but it went away again. “Yes? Really?”
“What do you think?” She smiled like a coquette.
“You really want to marry me?”
“Yes.” Her voice carried throughout city hall.
Harley glanced nervously at Mrs. Harmon who looked up only momentarily. Regaining his composure, he announced in his best business manner, “I’m so please the town of Cameron has decided to cooperate.” He leaned in to add, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. When?”
“As soon as I get the license!” He laughed just like Toby, which caused Mrs. Harmon to look up.
“Oh, you already have your license, remember?” She seemed to enjoy teasing him. “You received that yesterday.”
Harley grinned. He liked the way she treated him. “Where do I go to get something like that?”
“County clerk’s office in the courthouse across the street,” she continued in her best business tone.
“Sshh,” he pleaded.
Billie ignored his request and kept her volume high. “I believe they can solve your problem.” She leaned in to whisper, “Don’t be so nervous.”
“I’m not,” he insisted. Harley steeled himself and spoke up. “Thank you, miss. I’ll see to that right away.” Reverting to a softer tone. “Tonight after the show.”
Billie’s eyes widened. She momentarily lost her composure. “Tonight after the show!?”
“Sshh.” Harley continued conspiratorially. “Um, I guess I can come by your house. Your parents can pick the minister and—“
“Oh no!” It was Billie’s turn to have an outburst which she quickly regretted. “I think we better elope.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s so romantic, don’t you?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I’ll be waiting on the porch tonight.” Her eyes went soft with romance.
As Harley began to leave, he paused to wave and smile at Mrs. Harmon who was still busy going through the files.
“Nice dress, Mrs. Harley—“immediately catching his mistake he added, “I mean—Harmon.” He finally found his way out the door.
Billie couldn’t help but giggle but stopped abruptly when Harley re-entered.
“What’s your name?”
“Massengale. Billie Massengale.”
Harley repeated it a couple of times to commit it to memory. He was out the door, and Billie tried to resume her work at the counter but couldn’t concentrate because she was too excited. Harley had only been gone a few moments before coming back inside. Perhaps a principal comedian was aware that doing something three times created the maximum comedic impact.
“By the way,” he whispered as he leaned over the counter, “I love you.”
Billie pressed her dimples into their full glory. “I love you too.”
He paused long enough to cup her cheeks with his hands so he could kiss her firmly and with inspired passion. Finished he backed slowly to take in fully her classical beauty. He then skipped out the door and down the street.
Billie placed her elbows on the counter and cradled her face in her palms.
“Ooh la la,” she sighed, thinking of a dream about to come true.