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

The crowd clapped in agreement. Bill reminded himself to keep his language in check. He didn’t want to embarrass the political ticket hosting the rally.

“But this election is gonna be different.” He told the crowd the story of a secret meeting of veterans in March in the basement of a Studebaker dealership. He explained how they had decided to run a nonpartisan ticket of GIs, including Knox Henry, against Cantrell’s Democrats and of how word had been spread throughout the county’s three thousand GIs, risking the wrath of the Cantrell machine.

“It ain’t been easy,” he continued. “I’ve gotten them phone calls in the middle of the night. Threatenin’ me. Threatenin’ my folks.” Heads nodded among men, women, and even children who had received the same calls.

“I’ve opened my mail. Seen them nasty postcards. Tryin’ to intimidate us.” The crowd murmured its agreement.

“Those sons-a-bitches even arrested a boy who was puttin’ up a Knox sign on that tree right over there,” he bellowed, pointing toward one of the many maple trees lining the town square, “even though they would have just torn the sign right down anyway!” There was more nodding and clapping.

“Well, I say the hell with all of ’em!” Bill shouted, pointing his thumb over his shoulder like an umpire calling a runner out. “We went over there to fight for American freedom. But when we came back to Athens, it was like Nazi Germany right here in Tennessee!”

Now the applause really began to build. There were three thousand veterans in McMinn County, and many of them were in the audience, growing angrier with every word Bill said.

“Our county is controlled by a damn bunch of Gestapo thugs, beatin’ up GIs! Drunk as skunks most of the time!” The crowd’s applause continued to grow louder, as did Bill.

“And then there’s our very own Hitler, Mr. Paul Cantrell!”

The group roared even louder at the first mention of Cantrell’s name, and by now the cheering was almost louder than the words coming from the loudspeaker by Bill’s side.

“He’s so used to money and power. That’s all he cares about. And I say it’s high time we clean out the kickbacks, and the phony arrests! I say it’s high time we throw these gangsters right out of office, once and for all!”

There would be other speakers that night, many of them more eloquent than Bill White. But all of them—candidates and supporters, young and old, rich and poor—ended with the same promise: We will not allow another stolen election! Your vote will be counted as cast!

From the back of the town square, at every repetition of the GIs’ promise of a fair election, Windy Wise smirked. He knew all the tricks: how to put phony ballots for the Cantrell ticket in the ballot box before the first vote was ever cast; how to intimidate voters with armed guards; and, most important, how to take the ballot boxes from the key precincts to the county jail, a place where only Cantrell supporters could watch the counting. The square, redbrick building on White Street had been built to keep law-breaking people in. But on Election Day, it served as the perfect place to keep law-abiding people out.

July 25, 1946

“Dear Director Hoover,” the letter from the people of Athens began. “We are writing to request FBI observers to ensure an honest and fair election on August 1.

“Every recent election has been stolen by ward-heelers, ringsters, and the boss of the county, Mr. Paul Cantrell. They and their supporters have flagrantly voted minors, voted more than once, bought votes, stuffed ballot boxes, blocked poll watchers, and excluded opponents from buildings where the votes were counted.

“We complained of fraud in 1940, 1942, and 1944, but the Department of Justice never responded. We challenged elections in court, but the local judges are part of the Cantrell machine. This year, we are hoping you will take action ahead of time, before it is too late.”

One hundred fifty-nine GIs signed the petition.

A similar plea was sent to both the attorney general of the United States and the governor of Tennessee.

Bill White, well aware of the governor’s loyalties and the federal government’s indifference, did not expect to receive a response.

Election Day: August 1, 1946

8:20 A.M.

Downtown Athens was only about nine square blocks, but that was plenty big enough for the city’s seven thousand residents, many of whom farmed and lived on the outskirts of town. In the town center, things seemed to come in twos: two banks, two movie theaters, two Methodist churches. And in the summer, the city was always green—green bushes in front of local stores, green trees along the streets, green grass on the town square.

As Bill White walked toward the town square he passed the marquee for the Athens Theater, which advertised a Gary Cooper western called Along Came Jones . He’d been too busy with the election to watch any movies recently, but he put it on his to-do list. After today, his schedule would change.

After today , he told himself, a lot of things will change .

Bill passed Woolworth’s and caught up with his friend Fred Boone, who delivered orders for Athens Hardware. “Big day,” said Bill.

“Absolutely,” Fred replied. “I’ll sure be glad when it’s over. For two weeks, I’ve been running all over the county.” He stopped walking. His voice became a little quieter. “Everybody’s stockin’ up on ammo, Bill. Shotgun shells. Rifle cartridges. Even some bullets for pistols. People can’t get enough.”

He added, laughing, “One feller told me, ‘Got some big huntin’ to do—some big huntin’.’ But nobody’s foolin’ nobody. I don’t have to tell you. You of all people know best. You GIs are expectin’ trouble from Cantrell today, aren’t ya?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. There was nothing he wanted more than a peaceful, fair election, but he doubted it was possible with Cantrell involved.

“Stay tuned,” said Bill, before walking ahead, aware that no one from the government had bothered to respond to their petitions for neutral election monitors.

When Bill came to the corner of Washington and Jackson streets, his hopes and fears for the day were both confirmed simultaneously. To his left was a line of voters stretching for half a block out of the Eleventh Precinct—the City Waterworks. The polls were not even open yet, but Athens was a town of early risers. Bill looked at the white-haired old-timers, the farmers in blue denim, and the mothers holding the hands of their children, and he knew at least two out of every three were there to vote for the Knox Henry/GI ticket. There weren’t many secrets in a town as small as Athens, and the GIs knew who their friends were.

They also knew who their enemies were, and when Bill looked to his right, he saw a pack of forty out-of-towners marching toward the Waterworks, swaggering with every step. Most of them carried a rifle or shotgun, and all of them had obvious bulges in their coats where sidearms were holstered. They were silent, but their faces—especially their eyes—did plenty of talking. These were cold men—cold and cocky. They were the last battalion to arrive, the final troops in the two-hundred-man army Paul Cantrell was assembling to intimidate voters. Their purpose, Bill knew from previous elections, was to block the view of election monitors, and, most important, keep GI supporters out of the jail, where key ballot boxes could be “counted” in secret.

Bill stared at the oncoming horde and thought, I reckon it looked somethin’ like this, in all them little towns, when the Nazis first arrived .

But Bill wasn’t scared. He and his fellow GIs had something the unarmed townspeople of Europe never did. There’s more of us than them , said Bill to himself.