In this reviewer’s mind, the best fiction evolves from pure and utter fact. Why is this? Because an author who has literally seen, experienced, and gone through the very real-life situations they are writing about, is the ONLY person capable of creating the dialogue and emotions necessary to inspire the reader; while also delivering the lines that will make book lovers WANT to continue along the thrilling and chilling path the author has created. Add spirit, passion, talent and an immense amount of skill and imagination to the mix, and you have an author delivering the perfect book.
That is what has happened with a book titled, Cuba’s Most Wanted. Rube Waddell draws readers in from the very first page; an amazing author who not only ‘lived’ aspects of this life, but feels this subject to his very core. The in-depth and richly detailed characters, locations, and dialogue will actually leave readers speechless.
The Cuban Program in North Vietnam in 1967-1968 was a subject I didn’t know a great deal about. And the maltreatment of POW’s within this time frame made me extremely angry, as it will the rest of the world. Our military men always go to fight and aide others, and any one of these tremendous heroes being treated badly will make you red in the face, to say the least.
The first extremely powerful character that readers will meet up with is Rosa - a hard-core, determined woman who works in the U.S. Interests Section at the Embassy in Havana. What she really is, of course, is an undercover agent; but while she tries to unveil and solve crime, trafficking and murder, she must carry on her very believable job as a ‘consular representative.’ This woman has made contacts throughout the globe, including people in all areas of the government from Department of Security officials (which is the primary Cuban Law Enforcement agency under the Ministry of the Interior) - to high-ranking U.S. government officials and agents that send and receive her transmissions regarding what the crime bosses, drug traffickers, and military monsters are doing halfway around the globe. Rosa works at the Swiss Embassy building which, prior to the Castro take-over from the Batista regime, was the U.S. Embassy. As such, the Interest Section continued to function in low level diplomatic interactions between the U.S. and Cuba, serving mostly in consular affairs. Rosa’s outward ‘tasks’ in the U.S. Interests Section are mostly mundane and non-existent, giving her the ‘invisibility’ she needs to crack cases.
The other main character is Jay - a man who is working with Rosa to find the monster who caused unbearable harm to Jay’s life. He wants revenge on this man, and with the help of Rosa, Jay is determined to get what he wants. This crime boss by the name of Fuentes is playing a cat-and-mouse game with our characters, from Mexico to Cuba to all locales in between. He is part of a group of men who were tyrannical monsters, and Jay and Rosa each have their own reasons for wanting this band of heathens destroyed; they will stop at nothing to make them pay for the crimes they committed.
During this thrilling journey, there is also a story of pure and utter romance. Rosa and Jay have been attracted to each other for a long time. In fact, they both believe - in their own way - that they’re soul mates. One thing that’s standing in the way of their future, however, is the fact that Jay IS married…and happily. And even though he wants Rosa with his entire being, Jay must struggle with the fact that he can not find it in his heart to walk away from his family.
To explain every aspect of this story would take a lifetime, because of all the intricate storylines that range from drug cartels, to government officials holding secrets and lies, as well as strange characters located in some of the most desolate and frightening locations imaginable. I have to tell you to think Tom Clancy meets James Bond meets Indiana Jones meets the ‘best of the best’ in fiction. Readers will learn mysterious facts, data, and the inner-workings of the CIA and how a spy must operate in order to solve crimes and bring retribution down on the ‘bad guys’ heads. But, in addition to all this fast-paced adventure, the added romance and scintillating scenes between the two main characters makes for a book that has found a way to offer the reader the best facets of every genre that’s out there.
This is truly a 5-star read!
Reviewer, Amy Lignor
Read an excerpt:
It is history now! Most Americans will not remember the date of 12 February 1973, but there are millions of American servicemen, past and present, who will. That is the day the First C-141 lifted into the sky over Gia Lam Airfield in North Vietnam and began bringing home 591 military brothers who had suffered years in captivity in Hanoi prisons. This was “Operation Homecoming”! It was the end of the nightmarish incarceration of our American Prisoners of War in SEAsia.
This event will undoubtedly continue to fade from the world’s memory. However, the tales of horror at the hands of Cuban interrogators must always be remembered. Not until our returnees began speaking of the brutality, torture, maiming, death and disappearance of some service members did we even begin to take notice.
During the period of 1967 through 1968, two groups of ten men were singled out to be in “The Cuban Program”. This program was begun in order to display to the North Vietnamese an array of methods designed to bring POWs into submission and obtain military intelligence. Its implementation was under the direction of the Cuban leader American POWs referred to as ‘Fidel’. There were two other Cubans the Americans referred to as ‘Chico’ and ‘Garcia’, whose purpose was to teach the techniques of “terror-style” interrogation and torture to the North Vietnamese. These were proven methods used against anti-Castro dissidents in Cuba to gain dominance over, and submission of, prisoners. This is not to say the North Vietnamese didn’t use similar methods.
The FBI, CIA, DIA, DOD and the U.S. Congress, have made unsuccessful attempts to find the identities of these three Cubans. Since 1973, when “The Cuban Program” was first exposed, until 1998-99, no U.S. Agency had confirmed the identities of these men. Accusations of ‘foot dragging’ and concealing information, has been leveled at all U.S. Agencies for their apparent lack of determination, but the well quoted response is that, “International and Diplomatic concerns have to be weighed against the eventual outcome”.
A Puerto Rican news magazine, El Veraz, published an article, “Torturadores Cubanos en Vietnam” in which three men were identified as the torturers of the American POWs in Vietnam. The same article displayed a photo and three composite artist sketches of ‘Fidel’, ‘Chico’ and ‘Garcia’. The names of the three individuals identified in the article as the torturers are Fernando Vecino Alegret, Eduardo Morejon Esteves and Luis Perez Jaen. The photos are displayed for your consideration.
El Presidente Fidel Castro of Cuba is on the record as stating that retired General Fernando Vecino Alegret was never in North Vietnam. However, the syndicated columnist who first identified Fernando Vecino had intercepted orders from the Castro regime ordering Vecino to North Vietnam in 1967. Vecino is presently serving in Cuba as the Minister of Higher Education, and also the author of numerous books. Records show that Eduardo Morejon Estevez was assigned as the Assistant Military Attache to North Vietnam during the period 1967 through 1968. The connection of Luis Perez Jaen to ‘The Cuban Program’ has neither been confirmed nor denied by any U.S. Agency.
In North Vietnam, the Cuban Embassy-65 Ly Thuong Kiet, Hanoi, lists the names of the Military Attache’s from Cuba during 1967-1968 being:
Manuel Bravo Yanes, Capt. Military Attache Eduardo Morejon Estevez Assistant Attache Guillermo Frank Yanes Assistant Attache Jose Milan Santana Air Attache
By listing these names the hope is that the Democratic Republic of North Vietnam might possibly research records through the 1967 – 1968 time frame, and make an official connection to support or deny the claim that individuals from the Cuban Embassy in North Vietnam, during the war, were involved in “The Cuban Program”.
As time progresses, those returnees who withstood the utmost inhumane methods at the hands of the Cubans, will begin to forget these atrocities and allow themselves to take on the normal enjoyment of ‘Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness’. Those with life-long infirmities, physical disabilities and/or mental traumatic stress will not so easily forget, their nightmares will take decades to even begin to fade The U.S. Government and all Agencies must be persistent in order to bring truth and justice, and to pointedly reaffirm to all future fighting men that being imprisoned as a POW will never again have permanent or serious consequences.
As a past U.S. Serviceman and Air Force pilot, I cringe at the vision of being shot down and becoming a POW. I fear I would betray myself and my country by giving way to such harsh treatment just to keep my sanity. No fighting man should have that fear placed on his shoulders. He should know the U.S. Government, his government, will pursue with absolute vigor any and all efforts to bring justice to those monsters engaging in such brutal atrocities.
This book is a work of fiction. It shows how one man’s persistence brought about the identification U.S. Agencies could not. The purpose is to focus a continuing light on “The Cuban Program”. The men who endured such brutal treatment don’t seek sympathy. They simply want to know what they endured was not in vain. They deserve to know who their torturing interrogators were, and what action the U.S. Government must take to resolve the many secrets of “The Cuban Program”. This frightening past will remain a disturbing mystery in their lives, and will never end until the individuals dubbed, ‘Fidel’, ‘Chico’ and ‘Garcia’ have been positively identified.
Rosa looked troubled. “Tell me Jay…Tell me again why you are so determined to catch up to Fuentes? What was it he did to you? The reason I need to know is that I believe we both need to assess our determination. Our government has no interest in tracking down Fuentes here in Cuba. My assignment was to get him arrested by Mexican authorities or run him out of Mexico, and we’ve done that. We may not get any assistance from this Station Chief or from my own office back in the States, so I’m at a lost as to what I should be doing officially.”
“Have you forgotten why I’m here?” Jay stared at Rosa, and took a long deep breath. Removing himself from the couch, he sat down at the small, make-shift dining table so he could easily see Rosa. Closing his eyes for a good thirty seconds, Jay calmly began. “My family lives in Oklahoma. My Dad was an F-105 pilot in the Air Force. In January 1968 while on a mission over North Vietnam, he was shot down and captured by the North Vietnamese. He was subsequently imprisoned at the Cu Loc POW camp, a place referred to by the POWs as ‘The Zoo’. The airplane my Dad was flying was a two seat aircraft, and he and the guy in the rear seat survived the bail-out. The name of the other man was William Sutton. He lives in the Orlando area of Florida and I’ve had a recent talk with him. Are you with me so far?”
Rosa’s brow wrinkled in deep thought. She stood up from the couch and sat at the table opposite Jay. Nodding her head, she offered the kindest stare she could.
Jay continued, “I was five-years-old when the Air Force called my Mother to tell her my Dad had been shot down over North Vietnam and taken as a prisoner of war. Five years later, when I was twelve, all U.S. Prisoners of War were released. Their wives- my Mom’s friends were notified that their husbands would be returning, but my father wasn’t on that list of returnees. Needless to say, my Mom was devastated. She immediately called the Air Force to find out why, and they gave her no information other than he was still listed as a POW. A short while later he was erroneously listed in a Defense Intelligence Agency document as MIA, missing in action. First reports said he was a POW then that was changed to Missing in Action. That made no sense. Mother didn’t know what to think. She had the name of William Sutton, so she contacted him to find out what he knew.” Jay’s voice grew deep. “The discussion by Mr. Sutton was very brutal in relating my Dad’s treatment as a POW. My Mom was devastated.
“In 1979, Mom’s friends, those she’d corresponded with during the POW/MIA confusion, called her to offer her their condolences. When she asked why, she was told that my Dad had been listed as DIC, Died in Captivity. Now all of a sudden, my Dad was again re-listed as dead. Again my Mom was tossed into full blown depression.”
Jay sighed. “Mom began a project of her own. Under the ‘Freedom of Information Act’ she contacted the Air Force, the DOD, the CIA, the DIA, the FBI, her Congressman, her Senator, and anyone else she could think of, seeking information regarding my father’s capture and subsequent death. Nothing came! No one gave my family any information. In 1988 my Mom was asked to go to Washington to testify before a Senate Select Committee and a House Congressional Committee about POW/MIA problems, but that was all a showcase for politicians and nothing for the victims. Now, it’s 1999, eleven years later, and we still have no official information regarding my father’s death.”
Jay took a deep breath and stared into Rosa’s eyes. “Just before I met you, three years ago, I started my own investigation. I went to see William Sutton in Orlando, he told me that my father was tortured to death by a Cuban interrogator they called ‘Fidel’. This matched what I thought was a mistake. In some of the papers given to my mother, there were two names, Benetez Aguillar, and Antonio Guillermo. I found Mr. Guillermo living in Little Havana in Miami. He was under the Witness Protection Program through the FBI, and he was being paid and supported by our government. After I found Mr. Antonio Guillermo, I also discovered that Benetez Aguillar and Mr. Guillermo were the same person. I forced him to give me the names of the other two interrogators. They were Miguel Fuentes Luis and Raphael Pardo Amarales. These three were part of a project called, “The Cuban Program” in North Vietnam.
“Bill Sutton told me how the POWs named the Cuban Interrogators. The main interrogator was called, ‘Fidel’. The other two were named ‘Chico’ and ‘Garcia’. In subsequent papers published by the National Alliance of Families for the Return of America’s Missing Servicemen, we all realized that “The Cuban Program” was an official program created by Fidel Castro and sent to North Vietnam. The object of the program was to obtain total submission of POWs through Cuban Interrogation Methods and to teach the North Vietnamese every aspect of these monstrous methods. Torture was used by the Cubans to obtain submission. When a POW didn’t break he was unmercifully beaten…until he broke. If he never broke, he was tortured to his ultimate death. I know this happened to at least twenty POWs and my Dad was one of those.” Jays tone changed as he talked. “You and I found Raphael Pardo and he subsequently died after our encounter.” Jay’s anger was exploding in his voice. “I know that Fuentes is the remaining Cuban interrogator and is the man the POWs referred to as ‘Fidel’.” Jay’s face churned red. “Fuentes was the boss of the program and he killed my Dad!” Jay stopped talking and sat silent. Rosa respectably remained silent also.
After his long pause, Jay began by pounding on the table accentuating every word and declaring his determination. “I want Fuentes dead!”
Rosa arose from her chair. Moved behind Jay and put her arms around Jay’s shoulders attempting to offer comfort. “I want Fuentes dead! This time, if I have the opportunity, I will kill the bastard! I must avenge my families ‘crying blood’.” Rosa attempted to break the silence. Looking straight at Jay, she tried to be as comforting as possible. “I can fix us a meal right here. We have all kinds of canned foods. What would you like?” She took his hand, waiting for a response.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2011
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PROLOGUE
“German prisoners of war imprisoned in North Carolina?” These words jumped out of my mouth before I could think when my high school friend, Jim Wilbanks, told me about one of these prisoners. A native North Carolinian, I had no idea there were German POWs in my home state during WW II.
As a TV photo journalist I am honored to be relating the story of a most extraordinary man I have ever met. His name is Christolph Hoffmann. He was trained as a German spy during WW II. My fear is that my ability to present this story may not equal the accomplish-ments of the man. This unusual story began in the summer of 2006.
My high school graduating class of 1990 was having our Fifteen Year Class Reunion for Salem High School. For the past twelve years my career had coursed through apprenticeship as a TV camera man then on to a major network in the same capacity. I moved to New York and became completely absorbed in my career. On three occasions I was assigned to work with several documentary historians. After ten years I chose to branch out on my own as a freelance photo journalist. Working with other documentary historians filled me with the incentive to be my own boss and search out my own stories. I’d been in the business for ten years covering celebrities, breaking news items, and on-the-spot interviews. I concluded my credentials in documentary filming were at their peak. When the invitation came for the class reunion, the timing was perfect. My first TV segment had been purchased by a major network. My pockets were full of money, I was between films, and I looked forward to the opportunity to gloat to all my fellow classmates. I would be attending the class reunion.
And yet, going back to my high school reunion gave me appre-hensiveness I didn’t expect. Would I know names of those I should remember? Would I find an old flame who married a friend? Would any of the secrets I left behind surface to my embarrassment? The successes I had planned to share began to fade. I was sure that the reunion would be filled with couples bragging about their children. Since I never married, the thought of being isolated entered my mind. But once I entered the room where the reunion was taking place, old friendships immediately surfaced and my anxiety faded. My best friend from high school, Jim Wilbanks and his wife Judy, kept me busy all night reacquainting me with forgotten classmates. Jim is a staff member for the North Carolina Evangelical Lutheran Church in Salisbury where they live. Jim is an Ordained Lutheran Minister serving on the staff of the Lutheran Church. Conversations were never ending and always interrupted by other classmates. We relived fond memories, reminisced about high school days and talked about who married who.
As we talked I had the chance to brag about my recent success. I told Jim I was on the ‘hunt’ for another story. Jim gave me a tip where I might find my next feature story. He advised me to look at one of their church’s lay ministers, a man named Chris Hoffman. He said Mr. Hoffman had served Christ’s Lutheran Church for the past fifty plus years and desired to be ordained before he died. Interestingly, Jim added that Mr. Hoffman had been a German prisoner of war in Hendersonville, North Carolina during WW II. When Jim told me there was a POW camp right here in my home state, I nearly flipped out. Eagerly I asked Jim more questions but he didn’t have the answers. A journalist thirsts for and thrives on facts. I had to learn more!
When I got back to New York I began my preliminary research and found a total of seventeen POW camps in North Carolina during WW II. These facts and some photos I picked off the internet interested me enough to begin the story. I set out to capture every detail for my next filming segment. The network wanted twenty-five seconds trimmed from my previous segment and that stalled my real beginning. It took me until October before I could start in earnest.
Finally in early October I was able to contact Rev. Hoffman. I arranged an initial interview for 1:00 pm on the 16th of October, 2006. I had no idea this simple phone call would introduce me to a little known part of American history, enrich my understanding of human nature and turn my life upside down. Here is the story of that encounter. My name is Dan Turner. I will tell you the story in the form of a novel that I later wrote about my experiences.
This is the Story of Christolph Hoffmann!
Daniel C. Turner
Video Archives Enterprises, Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The directions Rev. Hoffman gave to Dan Turner were: “From Hendersonville take U.S. Hwy 64 North to Hwy 276, then North to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Then go east to mile marker # 408. Find Barr’s Trail Road (small dirt road just before Wagon Gap Road). Turn north on Barr’s road. Christ’s Lutheran Church will be immediately on the right just off the parkway. Then continue north 2.1 miles to the summit of Christoph’s Knob.”
Dan found Barr’s Trail Road and started the drive toward the summit. It seemed an eternity to finish the 2.1 miles. The road was no wider than a cart path and unimproved. Except for an occasional leveling by county road crews, the term unimproved was an under-statement. His car left a trail of dust as he coursed up the steep winding road. The grade was so steep that sometimes he felt his feet were higher than his head. His new Toyota SUV would occasionally spin its wheels on the gravel road bed. As he came around a double-back curve he glimpsed a house sitting serenely on a grassy knoll surrounded by a stand of hardwood trees and an occasional bolder appearing to rise out of the ground. The grass was freshly cut and was beginning to turn a fall brown. The house was a two story alpine chalet with scalloped and brightly painted trim along the roofline. A small porch on the upper level was decorated with well crafted hand railings and balusters. The Bavarian influence was obvious.
A wall of river rocks clad the house up to the mid-point of the exterior walls. Above the belt line were rough-cut cedar boards and battens. The house had numerous windows allowing excellent views of the mountainous skyline. The house appeared to be built with obvious personal care and craftsmanship.
The road became the driveway. Grass grew between the two tire tracks which continued straight into the garage at the rear of the house. A level parking area in front of the house was carved out of the red, clay-based soil. Dan parked his SUV and took a moment to allow the hazardous drive to fade away. As he opened the door the cool mountain air filled his lungs and refreshed his spirit. The scary drive was forgotten. When Dan slid out of the vehicle his leg muscles nearly buckled when attempting to stand. He looked over the top of his SUV at the surrounding mountains. To a flat-lander this was like being on top of the world.
He walked slowly over the large stepping stones leading to the front porch. Flower beds lined the walk. The first October chill had ended the life of all the annuals but he could easily imagine the colorful array of plants in the spring.
An elderly man sat in a green rocker holding a steaming coffee mug in his hands. He stood up to greet the visitor. He wore a black and red alpaca woven sweater over a red plaid flannel shirt. His hair was completely white and his cheeks were healthfully pink. His light blue eyes lined by crow’s feet, followed Dan’s approach. His eyes seemed to glow under distinctive black eyebrows. Any anxiety Dan harbored for intruding on this man’s life suddenly disappeared. His smile was welcoming.
“Good morning! You must be Rev. Hoffman!” Dan offered his biggest smile as he walked onto the porch.
The elderly man nodded and walked to the edge of the porch to greet his visitor. He made a throat clearing sound. “Yes sir! I’m Chris Hoffman.” His friendliness captured Dan. “How’re you this morning? You have to be Dan Turner!” With a wave of his left hand he motioned Dan forward.
“Come on up and have a chair.” Starting a move back to his rocker he asked. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
As he spoke, his eyes glanced up and down and Dan knew this man was sizing him up. Dan replied. “No thanks.”
Dan had no idea why he declined his offer for coffee. It was chilly and his jacket was thin. A cup of caffeine would have warmed him and soothed his nerves from the drive up. For a city person only familiar with flat terrain, his driving up the small cart path road seemed treacherous and life threatening. The steep incline and the frightening vision of looking down the mountain side tensed his entire body.
Rev. Hoffman shuffled back to his rocker and sat down. “What can I do for you?” He pulled his rocker slightly toward his guest. His warm blue eyes searched every square inch of Dan’s face.
As Dan sat down, he said. “Rev. Hoffman…please call me Dan.” Dan leaned forward in his chair and offered his hand. The elderly man juggled his coffee mug and shook hands. His hand was warm and comforting.
Dan asked. “What should I call you?”
“You can call me anything you want. Some of my people call me ‘preach’, others call me pastor and others call me reverend. Or, you can call me Chris.”
“Your road certainly is steep and scary in places.”
“You’ve never been on mountain roads before?” He asked with a grin.
“Not like yours. That one is treacherous.” Dan sat back in his rocker and began swaying back and forth. The imperative of sitting in a rocking chair is that you must rock or the purpose is lost. The other subtle implication is that it is an invitation to throw off worldly concerns and enjoy a moment of calming peace.
Dan spoke. “As I mentioned on the phone, I am a freelance journalist for television in search of a feature story. My friend Jim Wilbanks who works for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Salisbury told me of your desire to be ordained and suggested that I might be able to research your life story into an excellent ‘filler segment’ for television. If that’s possible and you agree, today I would like to get an overview of your life. No details, just a quick and simple life history.”
Dan continued gently rocking without taking his eyes off Rev. Hoffman. “My friend told me about your being a German POW here in the States during World War II. Is that correct?”
Rev. Hoffman nodded. A slight grin began to show at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I was a German POW, right down there!” He pointed down the hill toward Hendersonville. “It was a most joyous time of my life! So…” He paused in a thoughtful mood as his eyes moved quickly from side to side. “So you want a story and I’m the main character!” He stopped rocking and leaned forward in his chair. For a moment Dan thought he was going to get up. His heart sank. Rev. Hoffman was going to turn him down.
“You sure you don’t want a cup of coffee?” He offered again to Dan’s delight. He wasn’t going to turn down the interview after all. “Yes please!” Dan answered. “I would love a cup of coffee!”
“Cream and sugar?” He rose from his rocker and very slowly straightened his back.
“No sir…just black!” As Rev. Hoffman got up from his chair, Dan noticed his khaki pants held up only by wide red suspenders hung loosely at the waist. The looseness of his pants hinted a loss of weight. As he walked through the screen door, Dan also noticed he moved deliberately. But he didn’t seem frail, only slow. Dan tried to guess his age. He figured, if he was a German POW during World War II, he must be in his eighties.
While he was inside Dan rocked and enjoyed the view. Off to the right just yards away from the porch, were huge moss covered boulders emerging right out of the ground. A walkway of Carolina grey slate completely surrounded the huge boulders. Along the walk-way approximately every four feet, circular planter beds made from stacked stones presented flower displays during the summers. It was mid October and out across the open space to the next mountain side the fall colors were most striking. Several shades of golden leaves interspersed by red, orange, yellow, rust colored leaves and green foliage, offered a fantastic serene setting for any observer. Dan sat silently swaying in the rocker having simple thoughts; this was truly “tranquility-base-one”.
Rev. Hoffman backed through the screen door with two cups of coffee. The thick stone-ware mugs carried the label ‘Huddle House’. Dan asked. “How long have you lived here?”
The elderly man thought for a moment. “My wife and I started building this house in 1951. We married that year and were living in a borrowed travel trailer while we began construction. I guess that makes it fifty-three years.”
“Tell me about your wife?” His interest perked up. It was obvious he liked talking about his wife.
“Her name was Olivia O’Malley. Her family still has the old homestead over on ‘O’ Malleys Knob’.” He turned in his chair and pointed to the mountain way over to his right. “Yes sir, Olivia was a beauty.” He grinned as his thoughts turned to his wife. After a moment the smile left his face. “She passed away ten years and two months ago from a massive stroke. She was sixty-five.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Dan said weakly, not knowing what more to say. He sat there muted by his incompetence on such an occasion. Rev. Hoffman went on. “I met her when she was eighteen. I was twenty-nine and it was love at first sight. After the war, since I was a citizen of the United States, I asked to remain in the United States rather than be repatriated back to war torn Germany.” Rev. Hoffman proudly added. “I have my citizenship papers in a frame hanging on the wall in the living room.”
Rev. Hoffman continued. “The main camp where I was located after the war ended was Camp Croft Army Training base in Spartanburg, South Carolina. The papers for my request to remain in the United States must have been lost. The U.S. military started sending all the POWs back to Germany in 1946, but I remained at Camp Croft for another year waiting for approval. I guess my name was lost in all the chaos. The POW fences were taken down, the compound dismantled and I was free to wander around the camp as I wanted. Then the base facilities began closing down and I had to leave. I had to find a job and take care of myself as best I could. That’s when I decided to go to Hendersonville where I had worked as a POW. The people there were very friendly and there was plenty of work in the fields. During this time I also attended a local Lutheran Church. The church gave me a job. I think the government lost all track of me and after a year I also stopped trying to contact them.
“That’s when I met Olivia. During that summer of 1949 the church was having its annual Summer Bible School. Olivia was a teacher. We met when she needed one of the restrooms repaired. The toilet wouldn’t flush.”
Mr. Hoffman sat back into his rocker and relaxed. He closed his eyes and relived that moment. Instantly all nature seemed to come alive. The birds chirped, wind chimes sang out from the rear of the house, and a lone woodpecker was pummeling a distant tree. Nature honored his moment of reverie.
He cleared his throat and began again. “She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Bible School continued for two weeks and each day I looked forward to seeing her. Sometimes, I even went looking for her. I was smitten.” He chuckled. “When she finished her classes, we were able to have long conver-sations and we became friends. It was Olivia who lobbied the church on my behalf to allow me to restore and restart Christ’s Lutheran Church on this mountain off the parkway. This church had been closed during the war. It had no pastor and it was in terrible disrepair. Somehow she convinced the Lutheran administration that she and I could make the needed repairs, take charge of the services and build a congregation. She and I both started the repairs and six months later we were married in Christ’s Lutheran Church. We both thought of it as our church.”
Rev. Hoffman asked. “You saw the small white church on the right side of the road as you entered Barr’s Trail Road? That’s Christ’s Lutheran Church…our church!”
“Oh…now I’m with you.” Dan nodded as he sipped his coffee.
The elderly man began again. “Christ’s Lutheran Church, is my church! That church is ingrained in my body and soul.” He paused. “I got that ‘charge’ when Olivia and I married. I have been a lay minister there ever since. That is why we built here on top of this ridge.” He pointed down the hillside. “If you look real close through those trees, you can see the roof of the church from here. As you might have noticed, it is a very small church. Our pews will hold only forty people, and we are seldom full. Each pew was hand-built by Mr. Souther, a member of the congregation. I am proud to minister to such a small congregation.”
“How did you become a pastor?” Dan wanted to start getting details but he still wanted to keep the interview more like a conversation. “My father, Meinhard Hoffmann, was a Lutheran Bishop in Berlin-Brandenburg, Germany. He was a very devout Christian. He studied the Bible and lived the precepts. We lived in Falkensee, west of Berlin.” He paused before completing his answer. “While I was a POW, like many prisoners who have had their freedom taken away, I started reading the Bible. I did more than read it, I studied it!” Rev. Hoffman spoke proudly of his work. “Reading the Bible is a very strange experience. It is the greatest book ever written. It is and has been the best selling book of all times, and yet it is the least read book of all times.
“During my years as a POW I knew I wanted to become a minister. I got some real practice as a POW. I started by having discussion groups about The Bible. This led to my holding services for the other POWs.” Rev. Hoffman turned immediately to face his visitor. Dan felt something profound was coming. The elderly man said. “Those who choose to read and understand the Bible, become advocates and desire to share their knowledge with others. It is a life changing experience.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2009
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CHAPTER IV
Emanuel J. Cobb was sitting in the Oklahoma City International Airport waiting for his flight to Dallas-Ft. Worth where he would connect with an international flight direct to Cancun, Mexico. As he sat there waiting he had thoughts of making this same flight three years earlier and meeting with his tour group in Cancun for his trip into Cuba. He reminisced about his unscheduled activities and harrowing experiences with Rosa Guttierez while in Cuba. A warm unseen smile wrapped his face in a pleasurable euphoric high. He had undeniable thoughts of Rosa and was curious as to where she might be and what she might be doing. His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the announcement his plane was boarding at gate 22.
Six hours later at 7:30 p.m. he arrived at the Cancun Airport Terminal. This time no one met him as before. He was pleased when going through customs was quick and easy. Gathering his luggage was no more difficult than expected. His first encounter was with a hustler wearing a red billed hat who introduced himself as a redcap ready to help with whatever he needed. Jay tried unsuccessfully to brush him off. The self employed redcap, self employed tourist guide, self employed helper, often reached for his luggage offering to carry it to a taxi. Finally Jay gave in to the persistent chatter and allowed the redcap to carry one of his bags.
Arriving out front at the taxi line Jay eventually and more sternly told him to go away. When the redcap left, Jay instructed the driver to take him to the Paraiso Cancun Hotel located on Paseo Kukulkan. The driver knew exactly where the Hotel was located. As they drove toward the hotel, Jay could see that the hotel area was appropriately marked with street signs directing any driver to the ‘Zona Hotelera’.
Jay’s first amazement was the boulevard passing through the hotel area. The main street to the ‘zona hotelera’ was Paseo Kukulkan, a fourteen mile stretch of the most modern four-lane roadway separated by a well manicured grass covered median. Tall aluminum light poles every hundred yards declared this boulevard to be the safest in the world, both day and night. The symmetrically placed palms as tall as the light poles announced the wealth and the tropical utopia of Cancun, Mexico.
Jay took in all the sights. As the driver approached a lagoon area with the Caribbean Sea on one side and the lagoon on the other, he became startlingly aware this was an area for only the wealthy. Every building, every shop, every restaurant, every bar was newly built. He passed a Yacht Club in the lagoon, a golf course and a shopping plaza. Jay was awestruck by the sights. Whoever made these reservations gave him nothing but the best. The life Jay lived in Oklahoma had nothing which would compare with this.
Normally his secretary made all his reservations for business purposes at a ‘Four Star’ hotel. The Paraiso Cancun Hotel was the best he had ever seen. Jay thought this hotel had to be at least a ‘Five Star’, maybe a ‘Six Star’ and wasn’t certain if the scale went that high. The Paraiso Hotel was no less than perfect; catering to the wealthy with the most luxurious taste. It faced the beach and he considered whether he would have enough time to lounge near the surf. The hotel was nestled in the most tropical setting possible. Landscaping islands included Royal Palms, Queen Palms, Coconut Palms, Washingtonian Palms, numerous split leaf philodendrons, bromeliads with blossoms, natural and native orchids and a waterfall. This was truly a man made paradise. The entrance was a huge portico facing the boulevard. The driver pulled in as Jay stared in awe. He had numerous offers from a crowd of eager bell hops to take care of his luggage.
He checked in with his reservations unquestioned and then stopped in the hotel bar for a nightcap before turning in for the night. Once settled in his room for the night, Jay made a futile attempt to call Penny and let her know he arrived safely. Having no success calling to the States, Jay sat at the expensive mahogany desk and opened his briefcase. He needed to get his mind focused on his instruction of where to go and who to see.
The next morning he arose at 8:00 a.m. Jay was a working man with a working man’s routine and sleeping beyond a normal get-up time was impossible. He put on his all too predictable standard dress of khaki pants and a blue button down broad cloth short sleeved shirt. On the ground level he wondered around to the three restaurants serving breakfast before selecting a poolside breakfast bar on one of the patios next to a fresh water pool with a view of the ocean. Not too many tourists were awake at this time of the day. Most visitors ventured through the many exciting nightclubs from dusk to dawn, listening to reggae, hip-hop, mariachi, jazz, or disco. Hangovers, jet lag, and wild partying demanded they remain in bed. Champagne and fresh fruit greeted every guest who ventured into the breakfast bar. The meal was included in the rate. As yet he had spent hardly any money in this journey. Jay believed he was truly fortunate to enjoy such treatment. He quietly wished Penny was with him to share this experience and a taste of luxury. He could not help but think of Penny’s plight serving two toddlers and all the mundane chores of motherhood. A slight pang of guilt surfaced.
After eating he decided to take a refreshing morning stroll and check out his surroundings. Outside the hotel on the Paseo Kukulkan boulevard, he made the choice to go northward toward a shopping plaza. The walk was uneventful as most of the businesses were just beginning to open. One strip of shops in the Plaza Kukulkan was conveniently located next to the sidewalk on the lagoon side and each shop was facing the beaches. All roadside shops were secured during the night by overhead, roll-up steel bar gates. Occasionally he would pass tourists wearing their swim suits. During the heavy business hours nearly everyone walking the plaza wore beachwear. The new generation of young tourist and college kids felt comfortable wearing skimpy, postage stamp sized bikini swim wear.
Jay couldn’t help but notice a lady about five shops away going through the process of opening a store. She too was wearing a bikini string top. Gathered and tied at her right hip was a sheer brilliantly flowered scarf. The scarf did more to accentuate the lady’s curves than to hide her bikini bottom as intended. One thigh was in full view while the other was superficially obfuscated behind the thin fabric. He stared in awe at the perfect body. Jay couldn’t take his eyes away from the lady, most especially from the well formed honey colored legs and body.
The lady had her auburn, shoulder length hair pushed back and held in place by a comb-like barrette. With a bank bag held in one hand, she struggled with a ring full of keys to unlock the steel gate. The lock was at the very bottom of the gate and the lady stooped over in a near squatting position exposing one thigh to its fullest. As the lock came off she threw the gate upward with her free hand. The display of strength was obvious.
Jay was now less than fifty feet away and grinned at the lady’s effort. As she stood up to unlock the glass doors, she turned in Jay’s direction. As their eyes met, both stared silently in absolute disbelief and startled by the unexpected turn of events. Shock held their tongues and neither could speak. As the moment allowed the brains to catch up, Rosa was the first to speak.
“Jay? Is that you? Jay Cobb?” Rosa’s eyes opened widely and her brows raised upward in total surprise. Completely caught off guard, she dropped her ring of keys.
“Rosa?” Jay blurted out her name. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The shock of seeing Rosa was a jolt to the passiveness of his early morning stroll. Fate had intervened.
The two stared at each other, motionless. Each waited for the other to move. A warm inviting grin slowly formed on Rosa’s face. Jay laughed in a mumbled sort of way.
He spoke her name again, still in shock. “Rosa? Rosa Guttierez?
Rosa dropped her bank bag and rushed to Jay throwing her arms around his neck. Jay put his arms around Rosa enjoying the moment. His hands touching the exposed flesh of her back sent electric waves of lust throughout his entire body.
They hugged tightly for over a full minute. Neither could believe the coincidence of finding each other after three years of no contact.
“I can’t believe this.” Rosa was still in shock. She pushed back slightly to look Jay in the eyes. “You never tried to contact me at all. I was hoping you would call or something.” Rosa held her grasp with arms around Jay’s waist not wanting to let go. She pulled him closer. After a moment she leaned back in his arms to take a better look. “God, you look wonderful! How have you been?”
“I’m doing fine.” Jay waited for his brain to catch up. Then he asked his own probing questions. “What have you been doing? What are you doing in Cancun? I thought you would still be at CIA Headquarters in Virginia?”
“Shush.” Rosa pursed her lips alerting Jay to speak quietly regarding her past.
Jay took the hint and spoke more quietly. “Are you married?”
“Absolutely not. I can’t find a man as good as you.” She smiled.
“Then give me a kiss!” Jay was happy to see her. His delightfulness well overcame his need for answers. He wanted to live in the moment. The two kissed, not a passionate embrace, but more like the way you would innocently kiss your mother or your sister. Jay took notice of the necklace Rosa was wearing. It was a golden image of the Indian Thunderbird. Jay knew she remembered!
Rosa was the first to disengage. “Come on, I’ve got to open the shop.” Both walked the fifty feet to the shop entrance holding each other around the waist. Rosa bent over to pick up the bank bag and her ring of keys.” My shop manager, Anna, will come in later. We tag team this business since the hours we need to stay open are all day and most of the night. Come on in.” She insisted.
“What are you doing in Cancun?” Rosa didn’t care why he was there. She was glad he was.
She ushered Jay inside the store and between an occasional customer or two, they talked for hours, catching up on every detail of the past three years. Rosa was delighted that he had two sons. Jay’s love for his sons was apparent as he talked about them. She listened and jealously admired Jay and his family. Rosa’s thoughts of having a family of her own had grown stronger over the years. She was beginning to believe her time was running out and it saddened her.
“Tell me more about your wife and your family?” A grin formed on her face at her next thought. “What in the world did you tell your family when you got back home from Cuba? Did they take it well? Were they glad to have you back? What? I want you to tell me everything.”
“When I called home from Miami both my Mom and Penny didn’t say anything. They believed I was still in Oklahoma. I never told them I was in Florida and they didn’t ask. I bought some new clothes and left Miami on a through flight to Oklahoma where I left my car. I called again when I arrived in Oklahoma City. No one suspected anything.” Jay was showing a glow of enjoyment in recounting his tale. “Well…when I drove up in the yard, not one person came out to greet me. It was like a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary. I had the problem of deciding when to tell them or if I should tell them. When I left Miami I was still on a high from our episode and bursting at the seams to tell someone. That feeling subsided during my flight home. As I thought about what we did, I realized how stupid I had been and I was ashamed to tell anyone. I had to make up stories about losing all my clothing and about what I did at the job site. Penny accepted my fabricated lies. My Mom didn’t accept my explanations. She kept after me asking a million questions.” Jay openly laughed at himself. “When I thought about Pardo and Fuentes torturing prisoners to get answers, I determined no torture could compare with lying to your mother. My mom knew what I was saying didn’t make sense. After three days of steady interrogation by my own mother, I had to tell all.” Jay had a warm smile on his face.
Rosa spoke. “What did they say when you told them you had gone to Cuba?”
“At first they were in shock. More because I lied to them than because of what I did. I couldn’t dress up that story and make it sound better than it was. No matter what I said I seemed to dig the hole deeper. I came clean about everything…let me change that…I told them everything except about you. I never mentioned you at all. I was faithful to Penny and that was all that mattered. After two days I showed the Thunderbird pewter medal of my Dad’s to mom. I don’t know whether I did the right thing or not. My mom cried. She had accepted my Dad’s death but this brought it all back. She took the Thunderbird necklace in her hands and went into her room and continued to cry. Penny and I stayed to ourselves that day but kept listening through my mom’s door for signs of her calming down.”
Jay’s eyes left Rosa’s face and stared into the distance. “You know what she did next? She came out of her room. Her eyes were red and puffy. She was dressed in her riding clothes and told us she was going riding. She did! When she got back after about four hours, she was just fine. The ride was therapeutic. She was a different person, back to her normal self.”
Jay thought back over those days. “Now, I have two sons, Emanuel Jay Cobb, the third, we call him Manny, and a six month old son named Jason Emanuel Cobb. I am real proud of them. I have those two Thunderbird necklaces, one hanging on Manny’s bed post and the other on the crib. I see that you are wearing a gold necklace of the same image. What’s that all about?” Jay stopped talking and waited for Rosa’s response.
“I found it at an antique jewelry auction in Washington. I wanted it.” Rosa shrugged here shoulders. “So I bought it. It reminded me of you and your family. I wear it everyday.”
Jay took her comments as a compliment. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me what went on after you got back.”
“I was recalled back into CIA Headquarters for an assignment there. They put me on the Cuban Desk. I tracked Cuban matters for three years before I resigned my position.” Rosa again shrugged her shoulders as if things had been too blah for her.
Jay had another urging. When Rosa shrugged her shoulders, you couldn’t help but notice! Soft things moved graciously. He tried not to look but couldn’t. She was the same beautiful, sensuous and immodest Rosa. A flood of intense heat flashed through his backbone.
“What happened to Fuentes after we left? Jay off-handedly queried Rosa to get her sensuousness out of his brain.
“We were successful in getting him fired. As it turned out, Fuentes had his own underworld of illegal activities. When this was disclosed he fled the country before they could arrest him. We tracked him to Jamaica. Then we lost the trace. He is somewhere out there doing his thing.” Rosa was not about to tell Jay of the true happenings. The two continued talking; reminiscing about their past episodes and enjoyed a few laughs together. They picked up their relationship where it was left three years earlier. Both felt renewed by their meeting.
Anna came to work just before noon to relieve Rosa. After the introductions, Rosa told Anna she wanted to leave for the rest of the day. Then she turned to Jay.
“Let me go into the back and change.” Rosa left and walked into the rear of the store. Once there, between some boxes stacked from a recent shipment, she untied her bikini top and threw it onto one of the boxes. She then pulled a loose fitting, bare mid-drift, sport style cotton ‘T’ shirt over her head and adjusted it over her breasts. A quick look into the mirror allowed her to believe being bra-less was OK. Nothing out of the ordinary was visible. Besides, being in the beaches area, many of the European women sunbathed topless and it wasn’t a big thing.
Then she donned a waist hugging wrap-around skirt over her bikini bottom and was ready to leave. The weather was ideal for going bare-foot which she preferred. Instead she slipped on a pair of white strap flip-flops. Leading Jay by the arm they walked down a side alleyway to her Jeep. The jeep was perfect for Rosa and for Cancun. It was a 1997 Green Jeep Wrangler, 4x4, with soft top, roll bars, and custom interior. She had taken off the doors for convenience. The sun and wind was her element.
“Where are we going?” Jay asked out of curiosity.
“I want to show you something.” Rosa was cunning in her answer.
“What is it?” Jay’s inquisitiveness was growing.
“Let’s let it be a surprise.” Rosa cast a glance at him with a smile on her face. Having Jay with her was more than delightful. She believed it was fate. Driving the twenty-five miles to Puerto Morelos was easy. Puerto Morelos was the main ferry location for visiting on Isla de Cozumel. Highway 307 was a modern four laned thoroughfare between Puerto Morelos and Cancun and built for tourist traffic. Beyond the last ferry location to Cozumel at Playa del Carmen, the road narrowed to only two lanes but was newly resurfaced.
After approximately another ten miles and just beyond the village of Paamul, Rosa pulled off the highway onto a side dirt road going east toward the water. The dirt road led up a foot hill to a ridge with an excellent view of the Caribbean Sea and the island of Cozumel. After about fifty yards she drove her jeep off the gravel dirt road into the undergrowth. The countryside at this place was much like a jungle. The plush healthy greenery looked as if it had been created as a tropical movie scene. There were no hardwood trees. Numerous volunteer palms, of all varieties, Washingtonians, Sagos, Australians, and Fan palms dotted the area between coral outcroppings and wind swept bushes. Broadleaf plants were plentiful in the shaded areas and knee high grass found a foothold in the open areas. Rosa had an idea this was a secondary entry road to the villa down below. She had been on this same road many times in the last three weeks and used it freely without incident. The road appeared to be privately maintained.
She pulled into the bushes. “OK…we’re here!” She announced with a grin stretching her arms outward. “This place offers a gorgeous panoramic sight.”
“OK!” Jay declared with a puzzled look on his face. He asked, “Where the hell are we? What are we going to do here?” He watched Rosa to see what she would do next. The jungle like growth seemed to close in around them and where they were didn’t have a panoramic sight.
Rosa reached behind her seat and pulled out a very powerful pair of binoculars. She walked to the passenger side of the jeep, grabbed Jay’s hand and pulled him along through the tall grass to the top of a ridge over looking the water. The path to the top was beaten down from her previous visits and was readily visible. At the top they were standing in tall waist high grass. Jay looked around and absorbed the wondrous panoramic view.
“You were right,” He said, “this is a surprise. This view is great.” He looked down at the turquoise colored waters and the white sugary beaches on the Caribbean side of the Yucatan Peninsula. Jay could see where the beach area was located but it was nearly hidden behind a row of volunteer queen palms and coconut palms growing along the waters edge. He could look down on protruding tall mounds of coral rock exposed along the shoreline with an occasional royal palm growing between slabs of coral. The ridge where he was standing was built from hundreds of years of windblown sand growing higher and higher with each hurricane season. Tall grass and broad leaf plants accentuated the ridge in the shaded areas of tall palms. As he enjoyed the view, Rosa took out the binoculars from their carrying case and began to study the country side and the posh villa compound near the water’s edge. All was quiet.
Rosa heard a vehicle sound. Surprised at the noise she quickly turned. She could see the top of a green camouflaged painted Humvee moving up the hill toward them.
“Oh shit!” She declared and instantly dropped the binoculars, grabbed Jay by his shoulders and forced him to the ground. She knew her jeep could easily be seen just off the road and soon someone be searching for them. The trampled grass would lead the intruders directly to them.
She looked quickly over her shoulder and whispered, “Stay down! Don’t talk!”
Rosa reacted instinctively. She had Jay flat on his back and straddling him at his thighs. She leaned forward holding him down by his shoulders.
“Be quiet!” She looked back over her left shoulder and could still see the top of the Humvee getting ever so close. Rosa and Jay were only about fifty yards from where they parked the jeep. Certainly the Humvee would stop and investigate their presence.
Jay was startled and confused by her fast reaction. He spoke quietly following her lead. “What’s up?”
“Shuush!” She put a finger to her mouth indicating for Jay to be quiet.
Rosa struggled to pull her wrap-around skirt up over her thighs and straddled Jay’s lower body before he had any chance to ask more questions. Then Rosa sat up, crossed her arms and grabbing each side of her top at the waist pulled it completely over her head exposing her beautifully sculptured breasts. Sitting on Jay’s thighs she immediately grabbed at his belt buckle, unbuckled it and forced his zipper down. She tugged at his shirt tail then jerked his pants down as far as was possible without him moving. Then she laid prone on top of him and put her right palm over his mouth.
“Don’t say anything.” She whispered.
Jay’s eyes were bigger than ever before. He wanted to ask questions but allowed Rosa the control she appeared to need. He had no clue as to what was happening. Then he heard a faint conversation in Spanish coming their way. He suspected they were somewhere they shouldn’t be and remained perfectly still. The waist high grass should hide their location. Rosa also remained still. The approaching voices began to get louder. The two waited silently until two men were within a few yards from them. They spoke a loud declaration of some sort which Rosa understood.
Rosa quietly whispered to Jay, “Grab me!”
“What?”
“Grab my breasts, get a handful. Pretend we’re making love!” Rosa began to rock back and forth.
With the next sound she heard, she straightened up as if startled and completely taken by surprise. Rosa reached under her skirt as if adjusting something. Then she reached for her top and pulled it to her chest in a theatrical show of modesty, guilt, and shame. Jay began pulling at his trousers. He couldn’t move too much. Rosa was still straddled over his thighs. Suddenly there was an abundance of rapid flowing Spanish between the two men and Rosa. Obviously she was cursing the two.
Rosa stood up and turned her back to put on her top but not before she made certain the two had an exclusive frontal view of her breasts. The two men wearing green military style clothing seemed ashamed and turned away quickly. Jay also stood up and adjusted his pants and belt buckle.
Then one of the men took out a hand-held radio and called someone. The conversation was such that the two men were reporting an intrusion. Rosa listened to the conversation very intently to glean whatever information she could. After he got off the radio, Rosa started berating both men. Words of anger were obvious. For several minutes she rattled back and forth with both men. Sometimes she was down right mad and out right verbally abusive while at other times she was nearly apologetic. Jay never understood a word of the animated conversation but he understood the visible gestures and the shouting. He knew enough from watching Rosa in her own style of theatrics toward the two that she was winning the conversation and demanding an apology for the intrusion. Jay wanted to laugh but couldn’t. He remained afraid of what had just taken place. Until Rosa had the opportunity to explain he would remain quiet.
Finally the man using the radio turned to Rosa, apologized, turned and walked away. His companion followed him. When they reached the Humvee they drove away continuing down the gravel road from the ridge toward the seaside villa.
Jay seized the opportunity. “What the hell was that all about?” What did those bastards want and why did they intrude on our sightseeing tour?” He wasn’t angry but slightly put out because he didn’t understand anything.
“Those two men work for the owner of that villa down there.” She pointed to the compound and the expensive home facing the water. Rosa searched the ground for the binoculars which were dropped when they were interrupted. Finding them she searched the compound for any signs of activity. She handed the binoculars to Jay. “Here, take a look.”
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2007
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“Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey?” Doctor Stark spoke questioningly as he entered the waiting room where several people anxiously awaited news of a loved one. Since his patient’s name was Ramsey, he mistakenly assumed the waiting couple’s name was Ramsey. The balding doctor appeared to be in his forties with heavy dark eyebrows. His tall frame, white medical coat, stethoscope draped around his neck, and the aroma of septic cleanliness, readily identified his status. The Waiting Room was fully decorated with a well ornamented Christmas Tree and Christmas Carols were being piped through the speaker system. Nothing helped to change the nervous somberness of the waiting group of people.
Sam quickly pulled his own large frame up from his chair and spoke, “Doctor, I’m Sam Coulter.” He held out his hand in greeting. “Bill Ramsey is my step-father.” Sam stood erect as he spoke and shook the hand of the doctor. “This is my wife Betsy.” Betsy stood up quickly to shake the Doctor’s hand.
“Are you the ones who found Mr. Ramsey?” The doctor asked as he began to search for information leading to the necessary treatment.
“Yes.” Sam quickly responded. “We are staying with Bill. We got up about 8:30 this morning and that’s when we found him on the floor in his bedroom.”
“How long do you think he had been lying on the floor?” The doctor waited for a response then continued. “Can you make an educated guess? The time frame in these situations is critical. The time since his episode is most important to us for assessing damage and making a proper diagnosis. Do you have any thoughts in this regard?” The doctor quickly surveyed the face of Sam Coulter as if searching for some emotional attachment. He saw none.
“We don’t know. We were sleeping in an upstairs bedroom and he was sleeping in his bedroom downstairs. When we got up, we went into the kitchen. The coffee is usually already made and Bill should have been sitting at the table reading the morning paper. He wasn’t there and both Betsy and I felt something was wrong. We called to him and got no answer. We knocked on his bedroom door and still no answer. As we opened his door we found him on the floor. He was next to a dresser, laying on his right side, clutching a small box with his left hand. We gently turned him over. He was very limp. His left arm was strong and he had a death-grip on the small wooden box.” Sam paused and turned briefly toward Betsy as if wanting her to affirm his statements. Betsy nodded in agreement.
“What we thought unusual was it appeared he had crawled from his bed, across the room to his dresser, pulled the bottom drawer open to take out this box he was holding. His pajama bottoms were almost pulled down from dragging himself across the room. His eyes were open but not seeing. They were glazed and fixed. We called his name loudly trying for a response. Nothing! So we called 911.
“Bill Ramsey has always been in good health. We come to visit with him every Christmas and he appeared to never change, always the same, energetic, cheerful, and never any health problems. We both believed he was never going to age; and now this!” Sam again turned to Betsy. He raised his eyebrows questioningly as if asking for her to add something.
“So you have no idea how long he was laying on the floor?” The doctor queried.
“No sir.” Sam responded while shaking his head back and forth. A worried look was begin-ning to set in. His concern was readily apparent.
The doctor continued, “Well for now, we have him stabilized. This is a very small hospital but we are current on the latest treatment for stroke victims.” The doctor forced both hands deeply into his jacket pockets as he searched for words. “There is an FDA approved treatment using tPA, if you use it within three hours of the stroke. We used it but got no response. That’s why I needed to know about the time.” Doctor Starke seemed to relax a bit. “We are now administering blood thinners in the hopes we might lessen the blockage in his brain and possibly return some functions. We are very hopeful in that regard!”
Doctor Starke continued talking in the hopes of relieving their tensions. “The medical pro-fession has been alerted to a new drug formulated from the saliva of the vampire bat. It is called desmoteplase and it gives us more time, 3 to 9 hours. But it isn’t available to us here. That could have been more promising. Right now his entire right side is paralyzed. The Doctor turned toward Betsy and directed his thoughts to her. “We don’t know yet about his left side, or how much it might be affected. If he crawled across the room, his left side might very well be just fine. It is way too early to tell how much his body might be affected and what abilities might return. Mr. Ramsey had a death grip on that small box you mentioned and that was a very good sign. He has strength on his left side and his awareness is an excellent sign. We will watch him closely for the next forty eight hours before we can say for certain what the future will hold.”
The doctor paused then spoke again before turning away. “Mr. Ramsey is in Room 203. He is awake and slightly alert. You may visit with him now.” The doctor politely excused himself and quietly vanished through the door into the outer corridor. Sam looked at Betsy and reached for her hand. Sam pulled his lips tightly together in frustration and shook his head from side to side. Betsy could see in Sam’s eyes that his brain was rapidly working as he tried coping with this turn of events. It was a week before Christmas and Sam and Betsy had come to Dallas Springs for their annual two day pre-Christmas visit with Bill Ramsey. Their purpose was to bring presents and make his Christmas a little more enjoyable occasion. On several past visits when Bill was despondent, Sam and Betsy had to rummage through the outside shed to find the Christmas decorations and erect the tree. This was always a boost for Bill’s spirits.
The townsfolk were uniquely homogenous. Their thinking was the same, their friendliness was the same, their ambition to welcome seasonal changes was the same, and at Christmas time everyone decorated anything and everything that didn’t move. Being in Dallas Springs at Christmas was a treat.
The town of Dallas Springs is a small community situated in the mountains northwest of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. From the ridge at Eastern Point you could actually see in the distance where the tobacco town was buried in the smog as tall buildings jutted through the constant fog-like overcast. The community refused to grow beyond its boundaries. A small town where the country folks knew each other and the general store, which was also the Post Office, was all it wanted to be. There were eleven Baptist Churches, a one hundred bed hospital with six doctors, and rural America could be seen in every vestige of the town. It was a perfect place to raise a family. Big city growth was inching ever so closely toward Dallas Springs. The quaintness, the magnet drawing the city dwellers, was rapidly being threatened by the growth.
Dallas Springs was Bill Ramsey’s adopted town. He was seventy nine years old and had lived in this town since 1948. Bill had always been healthy and after his wife died was able to live alone successfully. This small community was Sam Coulter’s home town. Sam never admitted the fact that he loved this town. It had all the ingredients you liked when growing up. You knew everybody, it was safe, the schools and churches were the center of all activity and excitement, and if you needed a job or work after school, any of the store owners would hire you simply because they knew your parents. After Sam left for college, he never came back to Dallas Springs for any length of time. When Bill Ramsey questioned why Sam didn’t come to visit, Sam’s mother would instantly defend him saying he was too busy with his school work. In later years she would say he was busy taking care of his own family. The statements were true. Sam was busy with his school work but after graduating he let his own personal life take precedence over visiting with his parents. Perhaps subconsciously, he had indicated no desire to proclaim his parents as equal partners in sharing his life.
Sam and Betsy had begun their annual pre-Christmas visits with Bill after Sam’s mother died ten years before. Bill was Sam’s step father and had taken care of him and his mother since returning from the war. Sam had often talked to Betsy about his confusion over Bill Ramsey.
In 1946 Bill Ramsey first appeared on a quick trip to Dallas Springs to fulfill a promise made to Joe Coulter, a dying Army buddy. He needed to leave some things Joe wanted his family to have. When Bill showed up right after the war, he was very kind to Sam’s mother and they became good friends. Bill remained in the Army but visited regularly from his post at Fort Bragg. From that first visit in 1946, Bill became the guardian angel for Sam as he was growing up. When the post war years became difficult for Sam’s mother to make ends meet, Bill got out of the Army in 1948 and first moved to the nearby community of Four Corners. He obtained em-ployment as a mail man which meant he could be closer to Joe’s family and visit more regularly. Then, after several years, Bill moved to Dallas Springs to be even closer. He wanted to make certain all their needs were met. He became the provider for the family. Sam’s mother always referred to Bill Ramsey as Sam’s Uncle Bill. When Bill married his mother, Sam was confused about the relationship. Suddenly Bill’s role changed from ‘Uncle’ to step father and it just felt awkward.
At first Bill was an uncle who lived across town, who dropped in frequently, who would bring groceries often, who fixed things when they broke, who was constantly taking care of them as if they were his own family. Then in 1955, when Bill asked Sam’s mother, Alicia, if she would marry him, his confusion began. This was the ultimate shocker. Sam harbored an unexplained resentment. He was eleven years old and Uncle Bill was taking his mother away from him. Sam remained a Coulter and his mother became a Ramsey. Sam felt he had lost his mother and his family identity. At his early age all attempts to figure things out were futile. In subsequent years, his confusion grew and he lost interest in family matters.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2007
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INTRODUCTION
On August 2nd, 1964, The U.S.S. MADDUX, while engaged in a patrol in International waters in The Gulf of Tonkin, was attacked by three North Vietnamese torpedo boats. The U.S.S. "C" TURNER JOY was also involved in a similar incident two day later. President Johnson, in retaliation, directed military air strikes against North Vietnamese targets. History has identified these incidents as the beginning of U.S. involvement in a war in Southeast Asia.
This was the first of numerous escalated responses directed straight from The White House. Each military escalation led to the eventual commitment of over one million American troops to this conflict. The controversy still rages as to whether these incidents between The Seventh Fleet and three small North Vietnamese torpedo boats were actual, contrived, or misreported. This will be the fodder that feeds research and historical analysis well into the future. We must continually ask the question, "Did we allow ourselves to become involved in a no-win conflict for so small a reason, at such a great price?"
When considering this question, it became my desire to mold these thoughts around a fictionalized character capsulizing the feelings left by this conflict. The first element would be to reveal dramatically the personal tragedy left by this conflict, the loss of our finest young men and women and the families affected by their loss. There were over two thousand MIAs at the end of this conflict. There are no words graphic enough to voice the true feelings of those families. The second element would be to honor a special group of Air Force pilots. These men were truly our nation's best, and to a man, unsung heroes. They didn't fly modern jet aircraft and drop bombs; they didn't get to shoot at MIGs or to strafe enemy targets. Nothing about what they did could conjure thoughts of hero status. They wore civilian clothes in a secret war in The Kingdom of Laos and flew as forward air controllers in the 0-1 Bird Dog. "Hanging-it-out" on a daily basis was normal duty and they incurred losses of one in three. These men, all volunteers, did their job in an extraordinary manner under the worst of conditions. These were those one hundred and sixty men with the call sign "Raven". They were Top Secret mission pilots just doing their jobs. Because their mission was Top Secret their exploits were unsung.
This story, OPERATION PAT HAND, is the dramatic, although tragic, fictionalized account of one of these men, Raven 45. He was shot down, taken as a POW, and lost for twenty years. His story brings to life the "what-might-have-beens" for those families still suffering the loss of a loved one. The story gives every pilot who flew in Southeast Asia the opportunity to recall the memories, both good and bad, of his tour.
There needs to be a special "tip-of-the-hat" to all those in Special Operations. These men get the job done, no matter how, no matter what, no matter how difficult. In my chain of command were a myriad of headquarters and functional entities. The DEPCHIEFJUSMAGTHAI, 7/13th Air Force, The Air Attache Laos (AIRA), The 432nd Wing Udorn, and the 56th Special Operations Wing at Nakhom Phenom, and Air America. Each day was a nightmare of arrangements. I never knew whom to ask nor whom to answer to. As Commander of Det 1, 56th Special Operations Wing, you faced each day knowing you could be crucified at any moment for making a wrong choice or over stepping your boundaries. Those in Special Ops facing these tasks are truly to be commended.
I would like to acknowledge Col. James D. Baker. Jim was a Raven in Long Tieng, Laos with first hand knowledge of day to day operations and the people involved. He provided immeasurable assistance, pictures, and tales about life at a forward operating location. Without his help, this story could not have been told.
CHAPTER I
LIMA SITE 20 ALTERNATE
LONG TIENG, LAOS
07:00 HOURS, 15 March 1969
"Good morning…is the aircraft ready to go?" Hollison greeted his crew chief cordially. His query about the aircraft was only a formality. He knew the aircraft was ready.
"Yes sir, Mr. Hollison, ready to go!" replied Beasley, the crew chief.
Hollison tossed his flak jacket into the front seat of his O-1 aircraft, stashed his AR-15 on the floorboard to the right of his seat next to the door. He made a casual look around the cockpit assuring himself all switches were off before starting his walk-around preflight of the aircraft.
John Hollison had the demeanor of a veteran. He was much younger than the crew chief, but all business. His six foot two frame allowed him to tower over Beasley. Even in his non-conventional flying attire, John Hollison was a handsome figure. Dark black hair and matching eyebrows, and a square cut jaw, made him a catch for any woman. But he had been too absorbed in learning to be a pilot the past few years to think about a relationship. He was unas-suming, straight forward, and confident, but on occasion his eagerness interfered with those traits, suggesting a cavalier quality of overconfidence, which could be danger-ous.
He reviewed the discrepancies in the AF Form 781 and then placed it on the seat inside the aircraft. He stepped away from the cockpit, looked around casually, and ritualistically began pulling on his flying gloves. The greenish, grey colored gloves were standard Air Force issue. Made from a flame retardant stretchable fabric, they had smooth calfskin sewn into the palm and fingers and a gauntlet extending up the arm offering functionality and protection against fire. Pulling on his tight fitting, comfortably worn flying gloves, he began his pre-flight walk around of his assigned aircraft.
His aircraft, the O-1 Bird Dog, sometimes referred to as the L-19, was a Cessna-335 specifically built for military uses in an air-to-ground support role. There wasn't much to preflight on the O-1. He would check to see if all the cowl fasteners were secure; he would check the oil level in the engine; he would check all control surfaces for freedom of movement. As he approached the wings, he would check the Willy Pete rockets, underslung on the wings, to make sure the "pigtails" were securely attached. Assuring himself the rockets were firmly loaded and secure, he would pull each of the safety pins attached to a long red streamer, and give the crew chief the entire fistful of pins and streamers. Everything completed, he went back to the door, pulled out the 781, signed off his acceptance of the aircraft for flight, and handed the 781 back to the crew chief.
Hollison took a last minute stretch, adjusted his shoulder holster, then climbed into the aircraft. He strapped himself in with both seat belt and shoulder harness and began his quick left to right venture around the cockpit. He used no checklist. It was all too routine and too simple. This O-1 Bird Dog would be his for the next three to four hours. It was his "chariot of fire". To an outsider the O-1 appeared innocuous and impotent. But in the field, it could be the absolute means to rain down tons of aerial artillery exactly where it was needed with devastating accuracy. There was great power in these little machines when deftly handled by their USAF under-cover Forward Air Controller volunteer pilots.
After he finished his cockpit check, he signaled the crew chief. "All clear?"
"All clear," responded the crew chief.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2005
REVIEWS:
TWISTED JUSTICE is recommended for the true crime enthusiast.
How can a man who was 120 miles away from the crime scene when the murders occurred be convicted of the crime?
On the wet and extremely cold night of January 23rd, 1977, twenty tons of high grade Colombian marijuana was being off-loaded just outside the intercoastal water way at the mouth of Sandy Creek in eastern Bay County, Florida. This area of the northwest Florida panhandle was well used by marijuana smugglers. This same night, four residents of the small Florida community of Springfield disappeared. Three days later thirty-one bales of marijuana were plucked out of the bay in eastern Bay County confirming a smuggling operation. At this time no agency connected the disappearance of four people to the smuggling operation. All law enforcement agencies including the FBI, FDCLE, DEA, and US Customs allowed these smuggling files to be hidden from public scrutiny. The disappearance of the four Springfield residents remained a mystery and equally placed on the back burner. On August 7th, 1977, two teenage scuba divers searching the murky waters of the 'Watering Hole Sink' near Perry Florida, found bodies in the sink. The remains they found had been executed gangland style with deadly gunshots wounds to the back of the head. This discovery brought new life into the disappearance of four people and the marijuana smuggling operation.
TWISTED JUSTICE recounts this true crime tale, event-by-event, as the story unravels placing seventeen men under arrest. One man, David Monroe Goodwin #066031, was not at the scene of the murders but was convicted of three counts of premeditated murder. His conviction was swayed via manipulated, perjured testimony and circumstantial evidence.
Innocent until proven guilty is an idealistic myth! If you didn't do a crime, you should rest comfortably on the fact that no one in the entire world could prove you did. The power of the States Attorney, however, is such that testimony from convicted felons can be successfully used to twist to an unjust outcome. This is the injustice of justice and has happened too many times in the State of Florida, hence the title, 'Twisted Justice'.
No true crime library is complete without this book, TWISTED JUSTICE.
Read an excerpt:
Walter Gale Steinhorst ordered Charlie Hughes to carry the body of Harold Sims down to the waters edge. Complying without hesitation, he struggled slightly with the limp and bloody corpse. Hughes could carry the weight easily, but the limpness offered challenges of balance in order to haul the body down the steep incline toward the water.
There is something about a lifeless body when it is being handled. Every appendage is rubbery and appearing not to have any bones at all. When Hughes dropped the body, the legs contorted unnaturally up the back and the arms rolled backwards away from the shoulders. The head, with eyes still half open, instantly imbedded itself, face up, into the soft sand.
Walter Steinhorst directed the three hostages out of the van and down the incline to the water's edge. He barked out, "Get down on your knees." He turned to Charlie and said, "Walk out to the road and don't let anyone come back here!" Walt clamped down hard on his cigar and waved his .38 toward the road. Charlie paused for a moment and left.
Walter was standing in front of the three hostages with his feet nearly touching the water. The three hostages were approximately five feet away. Walt turned his head momentarily to the left toward the water. As he did, Douglas Hood called upon all his strength and forcefully lunged toward Steinhorst in the hopes he could force him into the water. Walt was too quick. With lightning speed he moved his pistol straight outward toward Doug and fired instinctively. Birds flushed from the trees in a flurry at the sound of the gunfire. The bullet caught Doug in the forehead just above the left eye. Doug's body instantly went limp and his momentum carried his body into the edge of the water. His head and shoulders were face down half submerged in the water and his legs outstretched on the small sandy beach. Blood rose out of the water and created a crimson swirl as the small waves, created by his fall into the water, circulated the bloody substance in ever increasing ripples.
Walt moved in front of Sandra McAdams with his .38 pointing toward her. As he did, Sheila McAdams jumped in front of her little sister. The bullet caught Sheila in the chest. She fell back against the knees of her sister.
Sandra McAdams was horrified and yelling unproductively against the constraints of the gag. He eyes opened ever so widely, her body shook in fear, time stood still. A mental veil closed down her mind and allowed some detachment from the moment. As Steinhorst moved around her, she followed him with her eyes, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks. Then she turned her body to keep watching her executioner. Steinhorst grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head to the front away from him. Holding her head steady, he moved behind her and placed a bullet into her skull. She fell forward against Sheila.
Four people from Springfield, Florida, vanished that night.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2005
REVIEWS:
Read an excerpt:
CHAPTER I
"Penny, are you awake"? He spoke softly, gazing down into the night through the upstairs bedroom window. The amber security light on a utility pole in the garage area lit up his face.
"Penny...Penny." He raised his voice as he turned toward the bed. "Penny, are you awake"? His voice louder, more determined to get an answer.
"Well, I am now." She spoke with disdain at being forced out of a perfect sleep. Her body, immobile from a paralytic sleep, began to move slowly under the sheets. Her sluggish fingers found the right temple and she subconsciously scratched at her hairline, bringing life back into her sleep filled body. It was never easy for Penny to awaken; being pulled from a sound sleep made it even more difficult.
"I need to talk." Jay spoke quietly, trying not to further injure his wife's wakening moments. Most of the window was filled with his 6-foot frame and broad shoulders shutting out the light from the security pole.
Penny raised herself with an elbow digging into the plush mattress. With half opened eyes she squinted toward Jay. Her body was awake but her mind was yet to absorb the moment. Resting on one elbow, she looked toward Jay who remained in a fixed stare out the darkened window. Penny peered at him for a moment, then turned toward the clock on the nightstand. Glaring in digital red letters was the time, 2:35 a.m. Her squint became more pronounced. Her head dropped as if to say 'what now'? She pushed soft blond tresses away from her face. The astonishment on her face became more dramatic.
She pouted a complaining thought, "What is it?"
"I'm going to Cuba."
"You're what?" She didn't comprehend, her thoughts still muddled.
"I am going to Cuba!"
Now Jay had her full attention. Penny sat up, placed both hands over her eyes and after a gentle rubbing, responded, "What are you talking about? Why are you going to Cuba?" After having her sleep invaded, she needed a good answer. Her brow wrinkled automatically as she squinted through half opened eyes.
"I am going to find my father's killer." He spoke with conviction.
"You're what?" Penny recoiled upward. She reached toward the nightstand, fumbling for the lamp switch. She flinched against the sudden glare. Turning back toward Jay, she searched his face for explanations. This was unbeliev-able!
She spoke in disbelief, "You've got to be kidding! She stared through him. "You are going to Cuba to do what?" She imagined a misstatement from her husband of four years. She sat straight up in bed. Pulling both legs to her chest, she encircled them with her arms and leaned forward. Penny, with soft blond naturally curly hair, buttermilk white skin, and pinkish cheeks, was a wife Jay was proud to call his. His family joke was to refer to her as his 'trophy wife'.
"I don't know what!" He shrugged his shoulders. It was obvious he hadn't thought this through. "I feel compelled to find my father's killer. Since my mother and I returned from our trip to Washington, I've been obsessed with the thought that a Cuban national killed my father in North Vietnam."
"Did they tell you that in Washington?" She threw the question. "That a Cuban killed your father?"
He reluctantly offered, "No!" Penny's questioning was expected. Jay just wanted to talk to someone who might understand. Talking this over with his mother was out of the question. It would upset her and she would be negative about the entire thinking. He walked away from the window toward the bed, and sat beside Penny. The bed sagged under his 210 lb. weight. His mind, wrestling with disturbing thoughts had kept him awake all night. He had to talk.
"Then I don't understand." She looked deep into his eyes, penetrating straight into his brain. "I know you haven't slept well since you returned and you've been forgetful. You don't talk to me. We sit through our meals like we are strangers." She used both hands to push her hair behind her ears. "This thing you have, what brought it about? I knew when you returned something was wrong. You weren't yourself. You were too quiet. I knew something was bugging you. I asked you several times what was on your mind and you merely shrugged your shoulders."
"It wasn't just the trip, although the trip certainly had the most to do with it." He paused before continuing, "It's a culmination of things...the retracing of past events...the suspected cover-up...the idea that my own government tried to keep information from my mother and me about my father...this whole thing is growing into a nightmare all over again, much more than it ever was in the past." Jay looked for understanding in Penny's eyes, hoping for acceptance. He knew beyond all doubt she would be confused and shocked. He needed for her to understand. He tried desperately to read some acceptance in her eyes.
Penny was overwhelmingly blank; she was dumbfounded, not comprehending his thoughts. Still held hostage to mid-sleep arousal, all she could do was question his thinking.
She offered a solution. "If you'll wait just a little, I need to use the bathroom. After that why don't we go downstairs to the kitchen, put on some coffee and finish this conversa-tion?"
Jay found her remarks to be right on target. He wanted nothing more than to talk. He needed feedback. It was important to know if Penny thought he was crazy. He had to tell her everything before he could respect her verdict. He raised himself slowly from the bed. His harried expression spoke louder than words, he was disturbed and in mental anguish.
Copyright © Rube Waddell 2005