All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By Read online

  ALL HEADS TURN WHEN THE HUNT GOES BY

  John Farris

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2012 / John Farris

  Copy-edited by: David Dodd

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The quotation on page 93 is from Fabulous Beasts and Demons, by Heinz Mode, originally published in 1973 as Fabeltiere und Damonen, translated from the German by Edition Leipzig. English edition published by Phaidon Press Ltd., London.

  The italicized quote on page 115 is the last line from Peter and Wendy, by Sir James M. Barrie.

  AN APPRECIATION

  A prodigious amount of research preceded the writing of All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By, and I'd like to thank my sister, Su Mead, of Memphis, Tennessee, for making necessary contacts, arranging interviews, providing arcane source material, and lending invaluable support and encouragement during the months the novel was in progress.

  FOR MARY ANN

  In your eye

  was the sea,

  in the sea

  a fish,

  in the fish

  a dream,

  in the dream

  a stone,

  in the stone

  the seed

  of the flower

  that breaks

  the stone.

  January 4, 1978

  "Take what you want,"

  God said. "And pay for it."

  —SPANISH PROVERB

  I

  BLUE RIDGE

  MILITARY INSTITUTE

  Gaston, Virginia

  May 23-25, 1942

  The honor of your presence is requested

  at the marriage of

  MISS CORINDA LAMONT BILLINGS

  to

  SECOND LIEUTENANT WILLIAM JEBEDIAH BRADWIN

  Saturday, the twenty-third of May,

  at two o'clock in the afternoon

  Cadet Chapel

  Blue Ridge Military institute

  Gaston, Virginia

  From the Journal of Captain C. R. Bradwin,

  Fifth Regiment, First Cavalry Division,

  U.S. Army

  Saturday night, May 23

  The horrors have ended; or at least I have them at a distance. For now.

  I've always wondered about my ultimate capacity for good sour mash sipping whiskey, and now I see that I've nearly finished the bottle which the indispensable Hackaliah brought to my room about eight this evening. It is now shortly before midnight. And I am cold staring sober. True, there is numbness along one edge of my tongue that might be attributable to drinking. But my hand is steady, and I easily read that which I have been setting down in these pages; read without the faintest blur, or those appalling moments of frozen blankness that troubled me earlier. (Curious that I can write at all. Another discipline well learned, what Boss calls the "taxing art of self-revelation.") I suppose, rather than drinking myself into a stupor, I've achieved a state of dreamlike consciousness in which I can function creditably, as a professional soldier should, touched but not paralyzed by the tragic circumstances that by the dreadful tragedy we have almost lost control. I am not as remote as I thought. I felt drastically unbalanced on a narrow ledge of the mind, about to go crashing—not into the aisle below, that aisle already packed with hysterically shoving men and women., but into a dirty dark drowning oblivion . . . another drink wouldn't hurt. And the pain in my ankle has reasserted itself. Fortunately it isn't broken. Soaking has already reduced the swelling by half.

  Is there a taint of smoke in the room? The wind must have freshened from the mountains. An hour ago soft rain fell, but not enough rain to dampen the inferno still raging in the George Washington National Forest a few miles away. Fires are burning from Georgia to New England this spring, the most destructive outbreak in memory, with millions of acres of prime timber in peril. It's sabotage, of course, the work of what the president has called a "sixth column" operating in this country. Those cadets who have not yet taken leave for the summer have been in the mountains all day, supplementing the weary fire-fighting crews of the park service. This lovely old town is in. no danger, but I have only to walk (to hobble) across the room to the balcony doors to observe that the eastern sky is a billowing blood-red

  bloody

  blood everywhere spurting

  soaking into the

  The mind balks. But, quite apart from the conscious mind, the pen writes on as I sit and watch it, writes scarcely faltering, clean legible words words words waiting. Waiting for me to. And I must. If I am to have my sanity, then before memory is sealed like a grave I must account for it—all that I instinctively reject as inexplicable.

  God grant there is an explanation: not to be found in poor Clipper's face; oh, my dear brother, nothing there but the harrowing madness . . . I need to look elsewhere to begin, to understand.

  Boss could have used his considerable influence with our chief of staff to arrange a week's furlough, for me, which would have meant precious additional days with Nancy. Despite the stunning naval victories in the Coral Sea and the jubilant talk one hears now of total victory in the Pacific by year's end, I doubt it will all be over so quickly. Who knows how many months, or years, we will be separated? Of course only in wartime is it possb1e to win promotion as quickly as I hope to. Just two years ago Eisenhower was a Lt. Colonel with the 15th Infantry and, it must be said, not particularly well thought of; Patton, in my estimation a great soldier, advanced only from captain to colonel in the twenty years between the wars.

  Weighing every consideration, I felt that 72 hours was as much time as I could spare. My troop is combat-ready and the entire "Hell-for-leather" is long overdue for assignment. Marking time on border patrol is hard on the men, and there can be no more boring place to wait than the dry, brutally hot plains of west Texas. After months of crack training, morale is our chief problem: Men who are spoiling for a fight and who feel they are being ignored by the high command (we are dismounted cavalry, to be sure, but still looked upon as quaintly out of fashion) soon lose heart. I have confidence in Lt. Neal (Blue Ridge '39 and a K.A. brother) and his ability to command; perhaps he does have an unfortunate tendency to ingratiate himself with his superiors. No matter, I would have felt derelict enjoying so long an absence from duty at this critical time.

  With only 72 hours at my disposal it was not possible to attend both the graduation exercises at Blue Ridge and the wedding two days later. I chose to arrive the night before the wedding. Nancy and I would then have nearly all of Sunday to ourselves. (I thought her decision not to join me at Ft. Bliss was a wise one. The old post is wretchedly overcrowded; because of her allergies she would find the heat and the punctual, twice-a-day sandst
orms all but unbearable. Also, without a family to care for, there is not very much at the fort to keep her occupied. I was afraid of another spell of deep brooding, heartbreaking lament for the lost child. For the duration I felt she was better off at Dasharoons, with Boss to look after her—and she did seem to get along very well with Nhora.)

  My transportation was arranged by the Air Service Command. I would fly from Ft. Bliss to Kelly Field to Ft. Bragg in North Carolina. Boss would have a car waiting in Fayetteville.

  Unfortunately an engine, of our transport overheated, resulting in a delay of three hours in San Antonio. The flight was subsequently diverted to New Orleans to take on high-priority cargo, which turned out to be the household effects of an air corps brigadier reassigned from the Canal Zone. By the time the plane was loaded, heavy weather prevented our taking off. Assigned to an uncomfortable billet at the airport, I was sleepless throughout the night, always hoping that the next hour would see an end to the fog and drizzling rain. The roof leaked, and the Louisiana mosquitoes made me yearn for the comparatively mild nuisance of the flies at Bliss.

  By daybreak Saturday (only this morning? How could so much of my life be destroyed in a single day?) the weather was still dismal. Fortunately I was able to complete another long-distance call to Boss. I regretfully told him that I couldn't make it. Then I tried to talk to, and console, Nancy, but we were abruptly cut off. I spent an angry ten minutes in a futile attempt to replace the call.

  "Are you Captain Bradwin?"

  What a small world it can be! The speaker was Lt. Colonel Milo Cotsworth of Malvern, Arkansas, Air Corps Ferrying Command. Col. Cotsworth's father, a state supreme court justice, was a friend of Boss's (but nearly everyone of consequence in the state has been to Dasharoons at one time or another). As luck would have it, Col. Cotsworth was returning East, having flown a number of distinguished British visitors, among them Field Marshal Sir John Dill, to observe mechanized maneuvers at nearby Camp Polk. He'd heard of my predicament and offered a solution on the spot.

  "Captain, I'm flyin' to Washington when it clears up enough so I can see to get off the runway. Now, I believe that new landing strip at Camp Pickett, Virginia, is long enough to accommodate my airplane. How far's that from where you want to be?"

  "Camp Pickett? A two-hour drive, at the most. But—"

  "Don't worry about the weather, wind's northwest at 23 knots now, should blow most of this crud out to sea in another hour or so. I'll talk it over with the limey brass I'm haulin' around, but I don't think they'll raise a fuss about havin' you aboard." He looked thoughtfully at me. "I could drop a name or two, I suppose."

  "Only if necessary, colonel. And thank you, sir. This means a great deal to me."

  "Okeydoke then, look to be takin' off at about 0730."

  Col. Cotsworth's estimated time of departure was on target. Minutes after seven-thirty we rose skyward to meet the rays of the sun above a low-hanging cloud bank. Soon we were winging north in a sky of purest cerulean. The aircraft was a new four-engine Boeing Stratoliner, so recently requisitioned from Pan American Airlines it had not yet been repainted. A hearty breakfast was served by stewards. Our guests from Great Britain, all of eminent rank, were flatteringly courteous to a junior officer. Many of them were scholars as well as soldiers, and even Field Marshal Sir John Dill appeared to be well acquainted with Boss's six-volume history of the Civil War. Following a stimulating discussion of Longstreet's tragic flaw, I withdrew to nap for almost two hours, until we touched down at Camp Pickett.

  Another pleasant surprise awaited me at the field. As I stepped from the plane, a staff car flying the insignia of the camp's commanding officer drove up.

  "Sir," the driver said, throwing open the door for me, "General Blaisdell's compliments, and he hopes you enjoy your stay in Virginia."

  I looked up just as the starboard engines of the. Stratoliner restarted and saw Col. Cotsworth signaling thumbs-up from the cockpit. I smiled my thanks and saluted as he taxied down the landing strip. All of the frustration I had earlier suffered was now forgotten. Relaxed after my rapid journey to the Old Dominion, I eagerly anticipated my reunion with those whom I love most dearly on this earth.

  My driver, Sgt. Lew Chittum of Roanoke, made excellent time despite the fires burning along the Blue Ridge.

  A pall of smoke and ash across the southern approach to Gaston brought us to a standstill at times, but I reached the institute shortly before two o'clock.

  It was my first visit since my own graduation in 1937; even so I wasn't prepared for the pleasant wave of nostalgia that rose in my breast, lifting my heart well into my throat. If there is a more beautiful campus in the world, I have yet to be informed of it. Designed by Thomas Jefferson, the famous Hilltop Parade is lined with notable examples of classic revival architecture. There are six temple-form structures of dark red brick with extensive porticos and whitewashed columns thirty feet in height. The fourteen-acre Parade is surrounded by towering ash and elm frees. To the right as one enters upon the Parade are the cadet barracks. Against a panorama of the mountains, the cadet chapel rises in isolated splendor across the field, overlooking the campus. Today, however, as we drove along the Parade the mountains were not visible and the sky was queerly burnished by an indistinct sun. The air was unusually sultry for spring.

  As the car approached the chapel I heard what sounded like the 50-voice boys' choir from nearby McKinley School. Horse-drawn carriages waited on the wedding party. The line of limousines along the chapel drive could not have been less than a hundred yards long. Undoubtedly half of official Washington had driven down for the wedding of Secretary Lawton's granddaughter, and Boss's own party had required the use of a ten-car private train. There would be few seats remaining in the chapel.

  Two of Clipper's classmates, wearing full-dress uniforms, saluted as I went double-time up the steps to the ivy-framed doors. One of them recognized me.

  "Sir, didn't think you were going to get here."

  "It seems like a miracle to me," I replied, and went in. The choir had concluded their prenuptial anthem and already bridesmaids were starting down the right-side aisle. Six of the girls, all dressed in pale orange chiffon, fidgeted next to sashed and sabered ushers as they awaited their turns.

  Corrie Billings turned slowly on her father's arm and stared nearsightedly at me through the fine net of her veil. I pay scant attention to what women wear to be married in, but her gown struck me as being something very special—I'm sure it was an heirloom. The gown was cream satin embroidered with tiny pearls; it had a full skirt and a long train. Instead of a bouquet, Corrie held a small prayer book in her gloved hands. All around her, the children: spit-combed or meticulously braided, pale with the excitement and prestige of the moment, in their velvet and ruffles richly overdressed, like scaled-down royalty. Two boys to carry the train, two girls with baskets of tiny wild-flowers.

  With her charming quirk of a smile, Corrie pulled her veil aside, showing not a trace of nerves.

  "Champ, come here," she said softly, but with a sense of command few officers of my acquaintance could equal, "We sure are happy you could make it."

  I lightly kissed her cheek and shook hands with her father, who stood half a head shorter than Corrie and smelled of bay rum and sharp sweat. It was stuffy in the small vestibule, but Corrie was oblivious.

  "You look wonderful," I told her.

  "Thank you, sir. I let mama and all the cousins and aunts do the worryin' for me. It's the only way to get married. Well, now everybody's here, almost. Nhora's back at the train with her navel packed in ice, poor thing. Might be appendicitis, the doctor says. Or maybe it's something she ate didn't agree with her."

  "Damn shame. Nancy?"

  "Sittin' down front beside Boss. She's been all smiles these last couple of days, havin' herself a good time. Guess you're glad to hear that. Sure sorry about the baby, Champ. Don't you go givin' up, hear? There's gotta be a Champ junior in the family."

  "There will be. And how
's Clipper?"

  "He's been just a little strange lately—that's normal I guess. I peeked around the corner at him just a minute ago. Oh, Lord, he looks s'handsome in that uniform! I know I'll do somethin' dumb at the last minute. Cry. Reckon nobody will see me blubber because of this veil. Isn't it lovely though? Belonged to my great-grandmother, Sally Armitage Billings—What's the matter with you, honeybuss, you got to go pee?"

  One of the trainbearers nodded woefully.

  "Can you hold on a couple extra minutes? Then when you get up there on the altar—like at rehearsal, remember?—just ease on out the chancel door to your left, there's a toilet there you can use."

  The organist was already well into "Here Comes the Bride." "Corrie," her father said hoarsely, "for God's sake, you're gettin' married."

  "Reckon I better go before Clipper thinks I changed m'mind," Corrie said. She readjusted her veil. "Big brother. Champ, be seein' you."

  "Save the next to the last dance for me, Corrie."

  "I surely will." And off she went with her father, and into the chapel; I could hear a wave of rustlings and the murmur of voices as heads turned to the tardy bride.

  I went upstairs to the gallery, and was not pleased to note that the steps sagged and the cracks in the stucco walls had widened since my days as a "midge"—a lowly Fourth Classman. The chapel was built in 1834. During the Civil War it was shelled and severely damaged in the battle of Rickett's Mill, fought in the nearby woods. Rebuilt after the war, the chapel now stood sadly in need of restoration. I resolved to bring this to Boss's attention; as the senior member of the board of regents, he was in a position to get something done.