*DISCLAIMER** Scarecrow & Mrs. King is copyrighted to Warner Brothers and Shoot The Moon Production Company. The original portions of this story, however, are copyrighted to the author. This story is for entertainment purposes only and cannot be redistributed without the permission of the author. It is a labor of love. No infringement of copyright is intended.


You Win Some...

By Ermintrude

The hot sticky days were the worst. Not because of the heat and humidity per se—but because the smells seemed to be larger and bolder as the heat and humidity spiked. Billy prided himself on being a fastidious person—he liked to be clean and well dressed. But in this environment it was impossible.

Every afternoon when he finished his shift—before he wrote up his report—he showered. And showered and showered. And he still couldn't get rid of the stink of garbage. Well, that's why this job was 'traditional' for his people. And why he was there—to be the eyes and ears in the thick of it. To tell the truth of what was going on—not just let the FBI and their finks tell the tale. That was the job of Billy “Lancer” Melrose, field agent for the Agency under its Director Harry V. Thornton. Some days on the job were better than others, and picking garbage in the hot sun definitely made this one of the less-good days.

As he showered for the second time, he mused on how he ended up where he was, in the backyard shower of a shabby negroes-only rooming house in Cambridge, Maryland, in early May 1964. Nestled—in the 'colored side' of town, he worked as a garbage man, picking up the trash for the affluent whites on the better side of town. And mingling in the life of the ordinary negroes who lived in their separate side of town. His job was to gauge the mood of the black populace. And keep track of the movers and shakers in the negro community.

QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ

The Agency was a 'young' organization in the massive US bureaucracy. Signed into existence at midnight by Harry Truman in 1953—barely more than 10 years before. And the head of the Agency from its inception—Harry V. Thornton—was a progressive man. The FBI and CIA had been thoroughly segregated—that is no people of color, or 'negroes' as they were universally called in those days, were allowed as operatives—though they did clean the floors and toilets. And those workers had to have the same clearances as the operatives. They were just restricted to different duties. Just as vital, though more prosaic and unattractive to the majority white population. Even the covert operative population.

Harry realized early that if he wanted real information about the negro population, he needed negro operatives—people who would totally blend into the greater colored population and tell the real story of the people. The people who were not out front, who were not in the news, who were not openly activists.

Billy had served in the armed forces in Korea—a police action—though a war was a war no matter what you called it. He had, of course, served in a segregated unit—headed by white officers. Billy had managed to rise to the rank of Master Sergeant, no mean feat in a dirty, muddy, prejudiced environment. But he managed his troops well, got them to do the job, and yet be well-fed, well-housed and well-cared for. A certain MASH unit had helped a great deal, and he was ever grateful to those doctors and nurses who treated his men like people—not negroes but just people, same as the rest of the soldiers.

After he was discharged, he went to college at Hampton University in Virginia, then got his law degree at Howard Law School in DC and planned on a career defending his brethren in the courts. Nothing fancy or special, but an oppressed people needed good defenders. Then, while he was studying to pass the bar, he was approached by a man who was quiet, yet full of energy and enthusiasm. They first met by the study carrels at Howard's Law library. “Call me Harry—everyone does.” He seemed to cultivate Billy, and soon they would meet regularly for coffee at a local DC diner where segregation was politely ignored. Many lawyers and clients met there, and white and negro lawyers needed a neutral place to meet and work out the details of a case without raising the ire of segregationists who would balk at allowing 'one of those people' in their pristine offices.

So Billy and Harry would sit and talk—at first about passing the bar, and Harry made cogent suggestions on what was more important in the exams. At the time Billy never wondered how the man had that information. Later he realized he was being recruited and guided into what Harry wanted for him. Billy thought Harry was another lawyer, an older seasoned man who wanted to cultivate an up-and-coming negro attorney to help his practice with a possibly lucrative alliance. Later as the talk turned to the state of the world, and the US of A and finally race relations—something that few talked about in the late '50's—Billy began to wonder about the real motives of the man.

After he passed the bar in DC and Virginia (Maryland would hopefully come later), in the spring of 1960 Billy was offered a job by letter. He was to come to a Georgetown address at a certain time on a specified day. He knew he couldn't enter by the front door, but there was a well marked side entrance for janitors and the like, and he was nervous as he turned the knob and went into a small but clean foyer. He was dressed in his new suit as befitted an up-and-coming lawyer. An older negro woman, stern and ramrod straight sat at a desk, and inquired about his business. He proffered the letter, and introduced himself. She inspected the letter closely, and finally handed him a badge, and nodded toward a door. Her demeanor didn't invite any questions, so he meekly retrieved his letter and went through the door.

On the other side was a world he never imagined could exist there. He smelled the scent of drying paint and saw the facility was very new. New, elaborate and expensive. This was a state-of-the art facility. A Marine nodded at his presence, and inquired his business. Billy proffered the letter again, and was escorted into an elevator. The elevator went down and when it opened the Marine indicated Billy was to exit. He did and found himself—in a waiting area, well-appointed and nicely furnished. A young woman sat at a desk, and once again Billy handed the letter over. She read it through, nodded, and said in a polite tone—“Director Thornton will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

The offer of coffee to a negro by a young white woman was so unexpected that he replied by rote. “Yes please, ma'am.”

“Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Both please, ma'am.” Billy replied. Was this a dream?

She poured coffee into a china cup, added cream and sugar, and handed it to him with a cloth napkin.

“Thank you, ma'am.” He accepted the coffee and sipped. It was very good, rich and thick, and Billy wondered what exactly this job offer was all about.

In a few minutes the inner door opened and two white men in suits emerged. One addressed the woman. “He's all yours, Caroline.”

“Thank you Agent Mossberg. How is his mood?”

The men exchanged a look, “He's frustrated, but we're making progress. Ben-Gurion can be a difficult guy to deal with, but he can see reason as long as we point out the advantages to Israel.”

She nodded at the information. Then she turned to Billy. “Please be patient, Mr. Melrose. He will see you soon. Just enjoy the coffee, and I'll be back shortly.” She smiled at him and entered the inner sanctum with a steno pad in hand.

Billy's head was reeling. “Mr. Melrose?” No white person had addressed him thusly—ever. The men sized Billy up.

“New recruit, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Billy replied.

“You must be a new recruit. Nobody else would make it this far unless the old man had passed them already.” The man offered his hand to Billy. “I'm George Mossberg.”

He put down the cup and saucer, stood and shook hands with the man. He was white, but with dark hair and a slightly dark complexion and Billy realized the man was probably Jewish.

“Billy Melrose, sir”

The other man offered a hand, “Ted Williams—not the ball player.” They shook and the man chuckled a bit self-deprecatingly.

“You must get that a lot, sir,” Billy offered.

“You have no idea.”

“Good luck—I think the old man is a bit crazy, but then his crazy lets me work here, so who am I to knock it?” George smiled at Billy in a way that he had rarely experienced from a white man. The man actually saw him as a person—not just another negro. What sort of weird place had he fallen into?

“Thank you, sir.”

The men called the elevator, and left. Billy stood in a daze. Had the world turned upside down? A place that hired negroes and Jews? And had them working side-by-side with white men as equals?

Billy regained his seat and sipped the coffee, thinking hard. Was this something to do with Harry—the lawyer he chatted with at the diner? He realized their conversations had ranged widely and were highly unusual for a white man and a negro. He realized Harry had come to think of him as an equal—well equal in the law possibly. Certainly not equal as men. That was unthinkable.

Caroline emerged from the inner office. “Director Thornton is ready to see you Mr. Melrose. Bring your cup with you and I'll be in to freshen your coffee shortly.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Billy stood and entered the inner office. It was a typical lawyer's office, wood paneled, cases of law books and a large desk with chairs before it. There was also an alcove with a couch and chairs around a coffee table. Papers were laid out on the coffee table.

Then he saw the man sitting behind the desk. It was Harry—his lawyer friend from the diner. Harry stood and came around the desk to shake hands with Billy.

“Welcome, Melrose. I'm so glad you chose to take the offer we sent.”

Billy shook hands and his head reeled. He didn't think he had accepted any job yet. He didn't even know what the job was.

“Excuse me, sir, but I wasn't aware I had accepted any job yet.”

Harry chuckled. “Your presence here indicates you are just the man I need. And make no mistake, I need you and more men like you. We are fighting a war here—though it's one in the shadows. And I know you will be a great asset for this Agency.” Harry showed Billy to a chair in the alcove. “Have a seat and we'll talk. I suppose you have a few questions for me.”

Billy sat, and the door opened. Caroline had a carafe of coffee on a tray. She poured more for Billy, freshened his cream and sugar, and retrieved a cup from the desk and prepared it for her boss.

“Thank you Caroline. We are not to be disturbed. Unless war breaks out again.” He smiled and chuckled at his own joke.

“Yes sir.” She smiled at the two men and made her exit.

Billy goggled and was off balance. He didn't know where to start. Harry sat comfortably and waited for Billy to ask his questions.

“What Agency is this exactly, sir?” Billy finally decided to get to the point.

“Good question. And it shows I have not made a mistake. I knew from the first you would be a good fit here with us.”

“I wasn't aware I had accepted any job yet. I don't even know what job you would have for me, sir.”

“The same job all our agents have. I need you to be the eyes and ears of the government in places where little light shines. I need you and your unique skills and attributes.”

“Agent? What kind of agent, sir?”

“A covert operative.”

Billy digested this information. He was educated and well-read. “Do you mean some sort of a spy, sir? Like the people Wild Bill Donovan manages in the CIA?”

Harry winced. “Yeah, Wild Bill is a bit of a hip-shooter. And some of his boys are even more wild than he is. I prefer a man who is more calm and controlled, yet highly skilled and intelligent. I have your war record, and you rose to Master Sergeant in record time. You managed your troops well. I have a report from some MASH doctors about you and your quiet, polite determination to make sure your men were treated as well as possible under the circumstances. And your academic career is also noteworthy. You did your undergraduate work at Hampton University and graduated from Howard University School of Law here in DC. You have passed the bar in DC and Virginia, and are working on Maryland. The VA bill payed a lot of the tuition, but you also worked your way through school—mostly dishwashing or waiting tables. Occasionally by playing your sax. I realize you had expected to go into a private law practice. But I'm offering you something different, yet with potentially more impact than a small private law practice in DC.”

“I'm no spy, sir. I'm just a lawyer who wants to make a difference for my people.”

“And I'm offering you a greater chance for that than you would have as a mere lawyer.”

“You haven't answered my first question yet, sir.” Billy was being unimaginably bold. Challenging a white man, and a well-connected important white man at that. But in for a penny...

Harry chuckled and smiled. “You are right.” He sat quietly and waited.

Billy could play that game as well—it was an old lawyer's trick to wait in silence and let the person speak and incriminate themself. Two could play that game.

After a couple minutes while the men sipped their coffee in a companionable silence, Harry finally spoke. “Are you aware of the NSA?”

“NSA? The National Security Agency? Isn't that some super-secret government agency instituted by Truman? Nobody knows anything about them.” Billy sat and digested. “Are you telling me this is the NSA? And you are its Director?”

“Correct. And I'm offering you a job as one of our covert operatives.”

Billy decided to take Harry at face value. If this were a legitimate job offer, he needed to know exactly what he was getting into. “What would the job entail, sir?”

“You would work here, out of this building. At first you would analyze information gathered by our Agents and offer your insights and opinions. After your training was finished, you would take a place in our unit of local agents, and you would be assigned duties to gather intelligence wherever your skills and abilities would be best used. I can't be a lot more specific than that at present. Unless you accept the job and swear the oath, I'm constrained by conditions of national security.”

“What would the duties entail? How would I ever fit in as a spy?”

“Well, at present you are one of the most valuable people I can recruit. In the proper guise you can go most anywhere and gain information most other agents could never get.”

Billy made the connection. “In other words, I'd be a janitor, taking the trash out and delivering it to you and your people.” His voice indicated his disgust at the waste of his education and training.

“Probably yes.” Billy was taken aback at the directness of Harry's answer. Most white men would try to sugar-coat it. Harry continued, “But you'd be a highly-trained, highly-skilled janitor who could do things and be in places most of my other agents could never be. And then we also need people in Africa, where you would blend in better than a white agent.”

“Africa?” Billy was incredulous. “Does the NSA operate in foreign countries? Or just the USA?”

“Both. Our mandate is to protect the country and its citizens from those who would act against our aims and goals in the world. And as the world's policeman, we are obliged to operate wherever in the world people are plotting against us and our interests.”

“How does that differ from the FBI or CIA?”

“We are more covert and can go places and do things that those agencies might not be able to do. The FBI is restricted to our soil, and the CIA operates abroad. We can go anywhere the case leads, and not worry about borders or jurisdiction. Also we report directly to the commander-in-chief, and so can take on matters he thinks are more sensitive than he can trust to a wider bureaucracy. And, in special cases, we can even report on the FBI or CIA when they need oversight.” Billy raised his eyebrows. “Covertly, of course.” Harry added with a self-deprecatingly chuckle.

“That's a big mandate. Did Truman know what he was creating when he signed the NSA into existence?”

“Give-'em-Hell Harry was a lot more canny about the world than most gave him credit for. His talents were mostly wasted while FDR was alive, but once he assumed control he managed things remarkably well. He was the one who decided to use the bomb FDR had funded and end WWII probably a year or more before it would have had he stayed with conventional warfare. Think of all those boys in the Pacific who are alive today because of that decision. I'm one of them.”

“And yet think of all the poor civilians who were killed by the bombs.”

“That's true. Except every Japanese citizen was expected to defend their country and their emperor—up to giving their lives—the ultimate sacrifice. The few times our troops encountered Jap civilians, even the women were fanatical fighters. They'd throw their babies at our boys, and then when they caught the baby, follow through with a knife to the guts. The entire population was thoroughly brainwashed. That's what we were up against. We encountered the same thing in Korea—but you know all about that.”

Billy nodded. Negro soldiers were mostly ignored by the North Korean brainwashers, but he'd seen a few white soldiers who had spent time in their clutches, and it wasn't a pretty sight. They were hollow shells of themselves. Brainwashing was an ugly process, that stripped a man of his free will, and made him a tool of his handlers.

“OK, I agree there's a lot to be done in the world. But I am engaged to a wonderful woman. We want to be married in a couple of months. We waited for me to finish school and start a career. We want a family. Where does that fit in?”

Harry sighed. “Having a family life is not easy in this business. Some do manage it. And many of those marriages end from the pressure of the job. But some survive. It has as much to do with your wife as it does to you. It takes a special kind of woman to support her man in this business. I think your fiancee Jeannie is that kind of woman.” At Billy's start of surprise Harry continued, “Oh yes, we have thoroughly investigated you, those close to you, your families and friends. We have to even before we make a job offer. My talks with you at the diner were the final interviews for determining if you were the kind of man we want. And you are.”

“You mention a career. In government service. What does it pay?” There it was—the iron test. Would he be paid equally to his white peers?

“You're a lawyer, you know the law. Since Ike signed into law the 1960 civil rights act, we cannot discriminate in pay for federal workers, or workers under a Federal contract for racial reasons. You will start as a GS-6, go up to GS-7 after you successfully complete the training, and can work your way up from there. That's not a giant salary, but it's pretty good, and it's guaranteed and steady. Unlike the pay of an independent lawyer in private practice. And we'll help you find lodging, buy a house when you are ready and whatever else you need to make your home life as good as you can. We have an Agency credit union, a good pension plan, good insurance, and health care for you and your family. We take care of our own. All of our own. That can include you and your family if you take the job.”

Billy thought about all that Harry had said. It was tempting—except he wasn't sure he wanted to be a janitor or waiter all his life. Still, it was good steady pay, and he'd have support. He could see Harry was a man who watched out for his people. And things were changing in the good old US of A. Civil rights were becoming more of a real possibility every day. He was a participant in the movement—making a small contribution by giving pro bono legal advise to negroes who were in trouble with the law—sometimes for their activities in the movement—usually for the slights and indignities the law dealt negroes every day.

“Can I take a tour of the place, sir?” he asked. “I'd like to see the people I'd be working with every day.”

“Fair enough. But you can't tell anyone—and I mean anyone—about who or what you see here. National security. But I think you are a person who respects the law.”

“One more question—if I take the job, what can I tell Jeannie? She's going to be my wife.”

“Once you accept the offer, and take the Oath of Allegiance, you can tell her who you work for—and what you do, in a general way. You cannot share details of any case, or people you work with. We have a cover for the Agency here, and you will be trained in those skills and work in that capacity from time to time to help maintain your cover. As a lawyer, your role will be pretty easy for you, and will require little additional training. She will tell your friends and relatives you work for our cover company, and that is how you both will live your lives. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes it does. I appreciate your candor, sir.”

Harry and Billy stood. “Let's take that tour then, Melrose. I think you will like it here.”

TBC

You Win Some … Part 2

By Ermintrude

Billy finished his shower, and changed into comfortable clothes, worn dungarees and a soft worn shirt. It was a far cry from his usual suit and tie, but it was the proper clothing for a garbageman off-duty.

He went up the three flights of worn stairs to his room. He needed to write up his daily report, but he still wanted to unwind, so he went to the battered case in the corner and pulled out his beloved saxophone. As he wet the reed, he carefully wiped down the brass instrument—making sure it gleamed properly. Once it was wet, he fastened the reed—it was a bit worn and he resolved to go down to the music store and buy a few more—and started to play. Quiet and slow at first, then with more energy and soul. As a field agent, there were few outlets for the stresses, and Billy found his axe was something he could tell all his troubles to and work through them in the music. After 45 minutes, he was sweating again, but thoroughly refreshed and ready to write his reports.

As he put the instrument away he heard a soft knock on his door. He opened it to see his neighbor in the rooming house, Fast Eddie. The man worked evenings as a waiter at a nice restaurant in downtown Cambridge and was also well-connected in the civil rights community.

“Hey Billy, nice concert. I sure appreciate your playing. You ready to go out and about?”

“Not yet Eddie, I have a couple things to do. Gotta write to my momma down south. Then we can go out. I need to go by the music store get a few new reeds.”

“You sure love that momma of yours. She doin' OK? Things gettin' bad down there in Mizzippy.”

“She keeps her head low. Don't do much about the white folk except at her job. She's active in her church, though. Gives her a great comfort.”

“You sure don't sound like you came from Mizzippy.”

“Told you, I was born here and my dad was from DC. Got killed late in the war in the Pacific, and she moved back home afterward. I came back here after my service. Never spent much time down there. Don't like it very much.”

Fast Eddie nodded. “Fair enough. Just knock when you're ready. I'll be in my room.”

As Billy gathered his stationery and pen, he mused on the 2+ months he had been here in Cambridge, under deep cover. He realized he was starting to 'go native'. His speech was different—talking like a lawyer would blow his cover pretty quickly—but he realized he was also sometimes thinking in the terms a garbageman would. And maybe that was good—or maybe it wasn't. He needed to play his cover, but he also needed to stay who he was. An educated lawyer, working for a covert government agency.

Billy quickly wrote out his report: George Wallace had been invited to speak at a whites-only Democratic primary election rally the next week, and things were getting tense over his appearance. The Governor of Alabama didn't have a chance in hell of winning the presidency, but he was running as a white backlash candidate—and was garnering a lot of support. It was a disturbing trend. President Johnson was working on passing some comprehensive Civil Rights legislation. The Southern democrats were staunchly against it—but it was still moving inexorably through congress. This time it might actually happen. Billy fervently hoped it would.

In his nearly four years as a field agent, Billy had traveled the world, but not as much of the USA as he'd like. Segregation limited his role in most all of the US—segregation was the law in the South, many parts of the North, and unwritten law everywhere else. He had spent a bit of time in the South—Mississippi specifically. And he'd made a few contacts there—his 'momma' for one. An older woman who worked as a maid in Birmingham and was connected in the Civil Rights movement. But quietly and covertly. So his letters to his momma were legitimate. Except she forwarded them unopened to DC. He had a few drops he could use for urgent communications, but the regular US Mail was quite reliable for routine communications, and totally unsuspicious. It made life easier, for sure.

He finished the letter, addressed the envelope and licked and applied the stamp. Then he collected Fast Eddie and they went out into the sticky early May afternoon.

They walked slowly to the music store. Billy chatted with the clerk, and bought three reeds for his sax. Eddie perused the harmonicas. Then they made their way to the Elks Lodge a couple blocks away in the Second Ward—the center of the negro community in Cambridge, and the center of the Civil Rights movement there. They casually greeted people on the street and Billy watched closely for signs of incipient violence. Wallace's appearance made everyone jumpy, and it wouldn't take much to start another riot.

At the door of the Elks Lodge, they greeted a middle-aged negro woman.

“Hey Gloria,” Eddie greeted the woman. “How's the non-violence business today?”

Gloria Richardson was the official spokesperson of the Cambridge Nonviolent Action Committee, the first adult-led affiliate of SNCC, the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee where her college-aged daughter was a member. She had been honored the previous year during Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's March on Washington.

“Hello Eddie, Billy. Have you come for the meeting?”

“Yes ma'am.” the men chorused.

They went in and made their way up the stairs. The building was typical for the Elks—a foyer leading into a large meeting room. Chairs were set up in a circle and a few people were already there talking.

“We have to let the whites see we will not allow Wallace to speak at the Fireman's Arena without showing our disapproval of all he stands for. The man's a stone racist and running for president. We have to demonstrate to show what we think of him.” The tall man nodded at the group who responded with “Uh huh” and “That's right.”

“Well General Gelston is a fair man. He will let us demonstrate as long as we keep it peaceful.” Gloria spoke as she took a seat.

Another man stood up, “But sometimes peaceful demonstration doesn't get our message across effectively. We need to be able to fight back if the troops fire on us.”

Some people nodded, some looked unhappy and shook their heads in rebuke of these fighting words.

“H. Rap Brown, are you looking to start a war here? Wasn't last summer enough for you? We got some progress—but the damage to our community is still being repaired.” Gloria replied in a tone which said this had been hashed out many times with no good result.

Fast Eddie spoke up, “What are the plans for the speech by Wallace? What do we have planned?”

H. Rap Brown replied, “We plan a march on Fireman's Arena—starting right here and ending outside the Arena. We hope to drown out his speech with the noise of our chants and protest. We have lots of students—black and white—committed to the march and protest. And the usual rest of our community who are willing to stand up and be counted.”

“Or arrested,” another man chimed in.

Gloria spoke again. “Arrest is always a possibility for those of us in the movement. Change cannot be gained without sacrifice. But we are committed to non-violence,” she shot a glance at Brown, “and so if arrest seems imminent we will sit and chant, but not offer resistance to the troops or officers.”

The group responded positively. “Yes, that's right,” “Mm Hmm,” “We know what to do.”

“OK, let's get down to the details.” Gloria addressed the group and they got down to the nuts and bolts of the plan for the protest.

Later in the afternoon Billy and Eddie left for their rooming house. As they walked they chatted in the late afternoon haze.

“Sounds like we're gonna have a big protest come next week, Billy. You gonna be there?”

“If I can get off the job, sure. But I need this job, so I can't do anything to get myself fired. You know how it is, right Eddie?”

“I know how it is, but some things are more important than a crummy job.”

“I hear you, but protesting don't put food on the table. Work does. And the speech will take place on Monday, so I have to work and join after or take off.”

QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ

Sunday at church the talk was on the protest the following afternoon. The Democratic primary was later in the week and Wallace had been invited by a prominent white civic group, the Dorchester Business & Citizen's Association, DBCA. They wanted to boost Wallace's Maryland campaign. It was seen as a direct challenge to the Civil Rights movement and a white backlash against the gains the community had achieved in the wake of the riots of the previous summer. Wallace spoke out against the pending civil rights act in congress, and encouraged white lawmakers to support the filibuster to impede the act's progress. He was running against President Johnson for the Democratic party nomination, and though his campaign had no chance of success, he was garnering support in unexpected places.

The negro community could not let his visit go unanswered. Hence the protest planned for the next afternoon. It was expected to be peaceful, but loud and emphatically showing the contempt people on the side of integration—in all walks of life—thought of Wallace.

Gloria approached Billy after the service. “Can we count on your presence tomorrow, Billy? We need every person we can get.”

“I can't get off work—my boss says he can't spare me. But I'll come by after I'm done.”

Gloria pursed her lips. “Well, late is better than not at all. I'll be looking for you in the crowd.”

“I'll be there when I can.”

Billy hurried home and wrote out a report. This one was urgent, so he made his way to the drop he had arranged with his superior. He had a bad feeling about this protest. Nothing he could point to, but Wallace was a lightning rod for all sorts of discontent in the negro community. Gloria Richardson, H. Rap Brown and others of SNCC were known quantities—they could be counted upon to behave in a non-violent manner. As long as they were treated with professionalism, and not attacked directly. If things turned violent, he would not venture to predict the consequences.

So he put his misgivings and worries into a report and dropped it off at the drop before the pickup time. Hopefully someone would listen and extra precautions would be taken.

QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ

Monday was bright and warm again. Billy hurried through his job as quickly as possible, showered, changed and made his way to the Elks Hall. The group had already marched out, and so he made his way to the Fireman's Arena where Wallace was speaking.

He got as far as a block from Race Ave, the dividing line in Cambridge between the colored and white districts. He climbed into the bed of a parked truck, and saw National Guard troops lined up in the street—right across Race Ave, barring the progress of the protest, halting it blocks from the Arena. The crowd was restive and getting more active. He climbed down and pushed his way to the front of the line. He saw Gloria talking to a National Guardsman. He squeezed his way into earshot.

“General Gelston order all this?” She was standing tall and proud, demanding her rights.

“General Gelston isn't in charge here. This is Colonel Tawes' operation.” The man sounded smug.

“Colonel Tawes—the nephew of our governor? What's he doing in charge?”

“Maybe the Governor thought he'd handle it better than the General.”

A man in a colonel's uniform approached Gloria.

“You all gotta disburse. Go home. This protest is over. You've made your point—now get out of here.”

“No sir. We're gonna stay right here. As long as whites have the right to hold their rallys, as citizens of the United States, we have the same rights as they do. So we're staying right here and continuing the protest until we're finished.” The crowd behind her shouted their agreement.

“Gloria Richardson—we know all about you. You get some fancy award from that nigger preacher Martin King and you think you're in charge of all the nigras here. You niggers better remember your place. Now go home. Disburse now. Otherwise we're gonna arrest you all—starting with you Gloria Richardson. How'd you like a stretch in Cambridge's jail?”

“We will not disburse. I know my rights. Arrest me if you have to, but we will not disburse. We are citizens exercising our constitutional rights.”

“Have it your way, bitch.” Colonel Tawes grabbed Gloria and turned her around, handcuffing her hands behind her back. “You're under arrest. Come on, you are going to jail for the foreseeable future.” The colonel himself marched Gloria off to a waiting paddy wagon.

She went peacefully, but she called back, “Don't leave—stay and protest. Don't let them deter your resolve!”

The people were momentarily taken aback. Then a growl started and spread.

Billy was heartsick—this was getting dangerous. Then he saw a couple people sit down in the street and start chanting. Soon the whole crowd was sitting on the pavement, chanting their protests and linking arms.

A trooper with a bullhorn came out and demanded the crowd disburse. His demands were drowned out by the protests. Eventually he turned and went back to the line of troopers.

Time stretched unbearably. The chanting continued and for half an hour it seemed the National Guard would allow the peaceful if noisy protest. Maybe this could end well after all.

Then another trooper approached. Billy saw he wore some sort of weird gas mask, and was holding a nozzle attached to two cylinders on his back. He approached to where Gloria had stood before her arrest. Billy was glad she wasn't here to get whatever this man was going to do. He saw Kwame Ture in Gloria's place. The man was another of the SNCC leaders in Cambridge. The soldier braced, and then gas and smoke belched from the nozzle—right in Kwame's face. The man went down, clawing at his eyes and throat, and the rest of the crowd erupted in screams.

Billy pulled out a bandanna, pressed it to his face, and squinted his eyes. He looked around, and saw Fast Eddie nearby with a young woman with a toddler in tow. He made toward them as the gas drifted toward them all. The crowd was now starting to surge away from the gas, but the press was too tight. The soldiers were advancing on the protesters, pushing with their rifles, and some with their bayonets. He got to Eddie and by then all three were coughing and retching from the gas. Billy's eyes burned, but the bandanna had protected him from the worst effects of it. He grabbed the child, and Eddie grabbed the woman and then Eddie grabbed his belt and Billy led them sideways, angling back and away from the gas and eventually away from the crowd.

They made their way back to the rooming house. Eddie and the woman were crying, coughing and retching. This gas was nothing like Billy had ever encountered. He wondered if it were experimental. Probably—that was what whitey did—they experimented on the niggers, to save the white population from the effects of testing. Billy's mind was in a whirl—he wasn't really thinking straight. But it was a great shock—how could a governor ever condone such an action on his own citizens?

He dragged the trio into the shower out back—he turned on the water and drenched them all thoroughly. Hopefully the water would wash off most of the gas, and they could recover on their own.

Eventually Eddie and the woman recovered enough to talk.

“Thanks, Billy, you sure saved us there.”

“Yes, thank you. How's my baby?”

Billy still held the toddler, who was limp and not breathing well. He went into the shower again, thoroughly washing the small body in the water—hopefully the child would start breathing naturally again. He stood there for 5 minutes—10 minutes, and still the child was not responding.

“Oh my baby—do something!” The woman wailed and dropped to her knees.

Billy put the child on the ground out of the shower and tried assisted breathing—he couldn't be too forceful, a child's lungs couldn't hold as much air as a fully grown adult man. Billy choked and sputtered—he had gotten some of the gas from the child's lungs into his own. My God—it hurt! He kept going, and eventually the child was breathing more normally, though by now Billy wasn't in very good shape.

Billy handed the child to the woman and said, “Here, get him to a doctor. The child needs medical attention.”

“Thank you, I'll try to do that.” She took the child tenderly, and walked away, deeper into the colored district.

“You saved us, man.” Eddie said. “What was that stuff anyhow? Wasn't regular tear gas, that's for sure. Been gassed a few times, and that wasn't no tear gas. No way.”

“No it wasn't. I don't know what it was, and I saw a lot of different stuff in Korea. That was nothing I've ever seen before.”

The two men stared at each other. In the distance they could hear screams and noise from the unrest. Billy bounded up to his room and looked out across the city. He saw a roiling mass of humanity. Soldiers were pushing the crowd back. Bodies lay in the street—please God, let them only be passed out, not dead, he prayed. Ambulances screamed as they made their way into and out of the crowd. People in handcuffs were dragged into paddy wagons, some barely able to walk.

“It's pretty bad, isn't it?” asked Eddie.

“Worse than I could imagine,” Billy replied. He felt so helpless. Why was he there? What could he do in the face of all this?

Be a witness. Watch, take note and report all he has seen. The soldier had gassed a peaceful, stationary crowd. With some unknown agent. On orders of the nephew of the Governor of Maryland. The same Governor Tawes who had replaced a decent professional soldier and put that buffoon in his place. The man had set it all up. He was responsible for that disaster. And he probably would get away with it. He was the authority in the state.

After the gassing, the soldiers had advanced on the crowd and arrested whoever they could lay hands on. People were still lying in the street—passed out or dead. Some were getting medical attention, but there weren't enough ambulances to treat all the injured. Others were dragging the fallen away as best they could. It was chaos. Violent chaos incited by the National Guard, on the orders of the Governor of Maryland. What was this country coming to?

Billy and Fast Eddie sat by the window and watched as the evening progressed. Eventually the protest area was cleared, but soldiers still roamed the streets and groups of angry blacks roamed in counterpoint to the soldiers. Some fires were started. Some of them were put out. Others were left to burn themselves out. Why did the damage always happen in the colored community—never the white districts. The screams of sirens continued through the hot sticky night.

Near dawn, things died down and Billy saw Eddie was dozing. He poked him and sent him off to his room to sleep. Billy himself was too keyed up to sleep. He sat at his table, and took out pages of paper and wrote and wrote and wrote out all he had seen and experienced. He put all his fears and impressions into those pages. By the time he was done, the sun was fully up over a dank and desolate city. Smoke still hung in the damp air. There was no thought of going to his job. He was done with Cambridge. He needed to get back to the Agency. He left a brief note for Fast Eddie—“gone back to Mississippi and momma.” He didn't need any more than that.

He gathered his few possessions, got out his emergency stash of money and made his way to the railroad terminal. He bought a third-class ticket to DC, and once seated he fell asleep.

When he arrived at the Agency—entering by the customary side door, he made his way down to the bullpen. Agents were coming and going, doing their normal jobs. How could they be so calm and ordered? Didn't they know what had happened in Cambridge? Why weren't they doing anything?

“Lancer—report. Why are you here? You're assigned to Cambridge.” Fred Smithers, Billy's boss called to him. Then he paused and looked the man over. Billy was dry after sitting all night, but he still reeked of smoke and the aftereffects of the gas. His eyes were red and wild from shock and lack of sleep.

Smithers gestured to Ted Williams. He spoke quietly and calmly, “Come on Lancer, we'll get you cleaned up and you can make your report.” The men gently guided Billy through the bullpen moving toward a shower in the men's locker area.

Billy started, and pulled out his written report. “Here's my report. It was awful. The Governor was behind it all. He ordered that idiot to gas the crowd and they just waded in and started breaking heads.”

Smithers took the pages and started reading—then he handed it to the other agent. “Williams, get this to analysis and see what else you can find out about all of this. This is priority one for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Williams shot a sympathetic glance at Billy and rushed out with the report.

Smithers guided Billy to his office, and pulled the blinds. Billy sat and Smithers handed him a glass, took one himself and poured them both a stiff belt of scotch. “Drink up—you certainly need it.”

“Thanks.” Billy drank reflexively, and choked on the strong liquor, rasping his throat still sore from the gas.

“OK, start slow. Be methodical. Tell me all that happened.” Smithers sat back and surreptitiously turned on a hidden recorder.

Billy started slowly, but with another shot of booze—drunk more slowly this time—he quietly related all that had happened during his long stay in Cambridge. When he got to the toddler, limp and finally breathing somewhat normally, he broke down.

“That poor baby. What had he ever done to deserve that treatment? Why do people treat each other that way? I don't even know whether he lived or died. Or any of them. Why do people treat each other that way? Why can't it be a better world? Why? Why?”

Smithers turned off the recorder and let Billy sob. The man had been deeply affected. He certainly needed to see the shrinks on this one. And maybe no more civil rights assignments for a while. Things were heating up in Africa, so maybe he could travel for a month or so.

Eventually Billy quieted and held out his glass. Smithers poured another, and Billy drank slowly.

“OK Billy. You doing OK now?”

Billy nodded dumbly.

“You had any sleep in the past day?”

“I dozed on the train.”

Smithers nodded. “Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get cleaned up, change clothes—make sure you tag them for the techs—I want to see if we can't get samples of that gas.”

Billy dug his bandanna out of his pocket and handed it over to his boss. “Here, this probably has the most of the gas on it. I used it to breathe through when the gas came over to us.”

“Thanks. Leave the rest of your clothes, though. You never know what those lab boys can do. Sometimes I think they are magicians. Once you're clean and dry, we'll put you to bed and you will sleep until you are done. Then you will talk to our doctors and process what you've been through. This was a bad one. But you've made your report, so we can act and hopefully prevent this sort of thing in the future.” Billy nodded dully. “Then you're going home for the rest of the week. I don't want to see you until Monday, and by then I'll have a new assignment for you. Out of the States. Somewhere abroad. You like going to Africa, right?” Again Billy nodded dully.

Smithers went to the door and called for an assistant. “Take Agent Melrose here downstairs, make sure he gets cleaned up and get his effects to the lab boys, and then put him to bed and see he sleeps. We'll make plans from there.”

He gently helped Billy stand and Billy was quietly taken off to a hot shower and a soft bed.

QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ

Billy made it home Wednesday afternoon. He had read the papers that reported Stokely Carmichael (the name the white papers referred to Kwame Ture) had been severely injured by the gas, but had been brought to a hospital by Cleveland Sellers. It had been grave, and he was still recovering. Billy also read how a two-year-old had died the day after the riot. The coroner had declared it was of natural causes. But all Billy could see was that small limp barely breathing body in his arms. He was heartsick.

Jeannie was surprised to see him home in the middle of the day, but she was enough of a veteran of these twists and turns of his job to take it in stride. She made him a special dinner, and made him play with their daughters. It seemed to help.

After dinner they sat in their living room quietly, with the TV down low. The kids were in bed, and they were alone together.

“This was a bad one, William. Don't bother to lie, I can tell.”

“Yes, Jeannie, it was bad.” He was silent for a few moments. “I'm off until Monday. Maybe we can go somewhere and have a few nice quiet days with the girls.”

“That sounds like a good idea. We could go down to see my Gullah relatives. That's a nice place to visit.”

“Yes it is. Quiet and peaceful. I need peaceful for a bit.”

“William, are you making a difference? Are you making things better for our people?”

He sighed deeply. “I hope so. Otherwise why am I doing all this? When I got into this business I thought I would help. And maybe I have. Just … not this time.”

“You're a lawyer. You yourself told me you don't win them all. What matters is that you gave it your best, and you win more than you lose. Can you say that? Do you win more than you lose?”

He thought for a long while. “Yes I can. I do.”

He thought some more. “Yes I do,” and this time he said it with more certainty and conviction.

“Well then, you are in the right job. And I love you. And the girls love you. And tomorrow we'll pack the car and drive down to South Carolina and take the ferry to the Gullah islands for a long weekend.”

“That sounds good. You're right. I can't win them all, but I do win more than I lose and in the end that's all I can ask of the job.” He stood and pulled his wife up after him. “Let's get to bed so we can make an early start tomorrow. And Monday I'll go back and do the job, and win one for all of us.”


The End