Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

As the veteran draped the medal around her neck, Iva thought of how much her reputation had changed in sixty years, but how little her patriotism and idealism had. She had regrets but no bitterness. She still loved America, despite what its press and government had done to her.

Facing the standing crowd and its thunderous applause, she thought back to the first time she’d seen the malnourished Charles Cousens. She thought of the first lines she’d spoken into a microphone at Radio Tokyo. And, finally, she thought of her father’s first words to her when she’d returned to California to stand trial for treason.

“I’m proud of you, girl. You didn’t change your stripes.”

10

The Battle of Athens: Repeated Petitions, Repeated Injuries

Athens, Tennessee

August 3, 1936

On the outskirts of a small mountain town in east Tennessee, twelve-year-old Bill White picked berries. By force of habit, he walked on the inner sides of his soles. The outer sides had begun to wear out, and his parents wouldn’t have money for another pair until Christmas. Not that he was complaining. He earned a dime a day for picking his neighbor’s blackberries from sunup to sundown. He could have saved up for some new clothes if he cared to.

Instead, the dime always went toward a movie ticket. On a good day, one of the two theaters in town was showing a western. Bill loved John Wayne. His cause was always just, his aim always true. The Daily Post-Athenian called the young actor’s early films B-movies, but Bill didn’t pay much attention to the newspaper. He could neither afford a copy nor read much of it. There were schools in McMinn County, but not good ones.

After about twenty minutes, a voice from the distance called, “Billy! Dinner!”

The broad-shouldered boy kept picking the berries.

“Billy!”

It had become a familiar routine for Ma White, who had already walked a quarter of a mile to call him home. She knew he liked to daydream, and she didn’t mind hiking all the way past the outhouse and past the neighbor’s barn with the “Paul Cantrell for Sheriff” sign on it to shake her son back into the here and now.

“Billy!” she tried one last time. But there was no response. The music of The Lone Ranger was playing in his head, and scenes from last night’s radio show were flashing through his imagination: The hero’s galloping horse, the silver bullets flying through the air, and the victory over a brutal band of cutthroats who had been terrorizing a small town. “I believe,” said the Lone Ranger’s creed, “in being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for that which is right.”

It was Bill White’s creed, too.

Five years later: December 8, 1941

Clifford “Windy” Wise opened the door of the Dixie Café and strolled confidently to the soda counter. Lunch was over, and the restaurant was closed to customers. But the bagmen for the current three-term sheriff Paul Cantrell’s political machine were no ordinary customers. The rules—be they store hours, or the county’s sundry prohibitions on liquor, gambling, and prostitution—did not apply to them.

“You fellas are like clockwork, ain’t ya,” said the café’s skinny, gray-haired owner, pulling a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from under the counter and pouring Wise a shot. “Here we are, under attack from the Japs. Whole country is signing up to fight. And here you are, collecting Cantrell’s kickback.”

Wise drank the shot of whiskey in a single gulp. Without looking up, he tapped his finger next to the empty glass. It was filled, and then gulped down again.

“Let me ask you a question,” Wise said, finally deigning to look up at the restaurant owner. “It’s about that back room. Behind that closed door. Now, I’m not sayin’ there’s ever any drinkin’ back there. I’m not sayin’ there’s ever any whorin’ back there. And I’m not sayin’ there’s ever been a single one-armed bandit back there. But supposin’ there was.” He tapped the bar, and the shot glass was refilled. “My question is: Are you plannin’ to put an end to it, just because there’s a war on?”

The café owner said nothing. He simply reached for the floor and pulled up a small satchel of cash.

Wise took another drink.

“I didn’t think so,” the deputy sheriff said, grabbing the satchel and turning to leave. “See you next month.”

Tarawa, Central Pacific

November 20, 1943

Bill White was floating in the ocean, a hundred yards from shore. He wasn’t dead, but he was pretending to be. All around him were angry splashes of bullets from Japanese machine guns, along with hundreds of American Marines, bleeding and lifeless, bumping into him. The explosions of artillery launched from the shore punctuated the relentless pounding of the machine guns. Strangely absent was the barking of orders heard at the Marines’ prior amphibious landings, where Americans had faced no serious opposition.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bill finally floated his way to within a few yards of the shoreline. He sprang out of the water and raced for the four-foot seawall that separated land from water. Beyond it were the Japanese snipers and pillboxes, the low concrete structures that protected the Japanese machine gunners responsible for the carnage that extended several hundred yards into the sea. So long as Bill stayed crouched behind the wall, he was safe—at least for the moment.

Bill scanned up and down the shoreline. He expected to find at least a few of his fellow Marines alive. He didn’t.

My God , he thought, there ain’t none of them gonna get in here. I’m all alone .

Bill had been in tough scrapes before. One night, after a shell from a Japanese destroyer had knocked him out of his small Higgins boat, a rescue ship had to be called to save him from the sharks that had already started to prey on his comrades. He had also managed to survive six months of hell on Guadalcanal. But never before had things looked so desperate.

Finally, through the smoke and bullets, he saw a figure dashing out of the ocean. Another Marine, who had also survived by pretending to be dead, was running through waist-deep water, his back bent forward and his hands covering his head. And he was not the only one. Bill watched more Marines emerge until an even dozen had made it to the protection of the seawall.

By this time, Bill was furious at the Japanese. “We can stay here and die,” he shouted above the din of gunfire to the dozen Marines crouched behind the wall with him, “or we can move out and die. But let’s move out and take these damn sons of bitches with us!”

Without waiting for a response, Bill jumped up on the seawall. The others weren’t sure why this crazy squad leader with a strong country accent had chosen to expose himself on a spot that was, at that moment, the most dangerous place in the most deadly war in the history of human conflict. Bill wasn’t sure, either. But when he jumped back down—just moments before machine-gun fire laced his section of the wall—he had a plan.

“Start shooting them trees and knock some of them snipers out of them trees up there.” No one moved. The stunned Marines just stared at him as though he were insane.

“Start throwing grenades at these pillboxes in front of us here.” Again, no reaction.

“Listen, if we don’t knock these pillboxes out then no other troops gonna be able to get in here to help us!”

Bill pulled the pin from his grenade and heaved it toward the closest pillbox. Then he crouched behind the wall—not on top of it this time, as there were some limits to his madness—and fired at the pillbox directly in front of them. Others followed his lead and the first fortification was soon destroyed. The dozen Marines then leapt over the wall and knocked out two more.