Air Force Eagles (34 page)

The Koreans hated and feared the Japanese; Choi jumped at the mention of the feared wartime premier. He gathered up his notebook and left the room, appearing as hurt as a suitor whose offer is rejected. Marshall realized that he still had some negotiating room left, that threats they didn't understand might scare them.

They didn't understand much. They seemed to have no feeling for the military situation, for the potential power of the United States. The questions they asked him were repetitive. Where were American units located? What radio frequencies did they use? They were all things that they must have known from their own sources. Marshall sensed that the psychology was to get him to admit anything, no matter how trivial, and then more important things would follow. While still denying knowledge of anything important, he gave them lots of material that sounded technically accurate without having any bearing on the F-86. He made it as complex as he could, so that they would ask him to repeat, to spell out what he was saying, and thus eat up the interrogation time. When he had more energy, he'd launch implausible digressions that they copied as faithfully as they did his technical jargon. He racked his brain for American slang and randomly tossed in catchphrases from old radio programs: "Do you want to buy a duck?" or "Inka-dinka-doo" or "Monkeys are the cwaziest peoples," little bombs that turned the interminable translating process upside down. Only a few of them spoke English well enough to conduct an interrogation, so that both questions and answers had to be translated.

Yet he knew that the cruel conditions of the interrogation would ultimately kill him, and he was not sure how long he would last. The process was routine to the North Koreans and Chinese who spent their days questioning him, sucking down countless cups of tea and smoking foul cigarettes. They would lead him up a flight of stairs to a dank, gray eight-by-ten room, moisture oozing from the walls. Twelve interrogators, mostly Chinese, would be crowded around a table, facing a small wooden stool. A single unshielded lightbulb hung from its cord. The stool was low, so that he had to sit with his knees up almost to his face. They did not allow him to move, even to stretch; either brought sharp, painful blows or, worse, a rifle barrel prodded deep into his back. After the first few hours, his legs were asleep, and only the gnawing pain from his hipbones grinding against the stool kept him awake. His swollen feet looked like eggplants, purplish-black, and pus drained from his toenails. He could no longer tie the tops of his canvas shoes together.

The interrogation room had a sole saving grace. Looking up from his stool at the interrogators, his eyes could go beyond them to a small window through which he could see a single tree branch, arched like a scene from a Japanese screen. Early in the interrogation process—a month before? he could not say—the branch had held four leaves. He'd watched them fall one by one, rooting vainly for them to hold on. They were all gone now, but yesterday he had seen the little bumps of this year's buds gently outlined in the falling snow, an image more beautiful to him—and more strengthening—than anything in the Louvre could have been.

As soon as Marshall entered the interrogation room, he saw that today was going to be different. Besides the usual dozen interrogators, there was a suitcase-sized recording machine with a bespectacled Korean beside it. The stool had been moved in closer to the table, and Colonel Choi was standing next to it.

"Sit down, Captain Marshall." He gave the technician a head movement that would have made Toscanini proud, and began: "Yesterday you said that you did not know what criminal offenses you have been charged with. Today I will tell you, and I expect your confession. Listen to this."

The recorder creaked and moaned. There was static, then a wavering voice, so slowly paced that it had to be deliberate.

"I. . . am . . . Lieutenant. . . Dick. . . Jameson . . . United . . . States. . . Air. . . Force. I. . . confess. . . that. . . I. . . have . . . waged . . . biological. . . warfare . . . against. . . the . . . people . . . of. . . North . . . Korea."

Obviously pleased, Choi nodded and the technician quickly rewound the tape and changed the reel.

"Because Lieutenant Jameson has confessed, we have identified him as a prisoner of war. He will return to the United States when the war is over. Unless you confess to your crime of dropping biological warfare agents, you will not."

"Colonel Choi, first of all, I have not waged biological warfare, and neither has Lieutenant Jameson, and you know it. Secondly, are you telling me that I haven't been reported to the United Nations as a prisoner of war?"

Uncustomarily direct, Choi answered, "You have not. And you will not be unless you cooperate. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you died in the crash of your aircraft. Your wife thinks you are dead, your family thinks you are dead. In fact, you are dead—unless you confess."

An overwhelming sense of isolation engulfed him; maybe Choi could win after all. Saundra wouldn't know if he were dead or alive—neither would his family. Somehow, he imagined that as a prisoner of war, some vestige of the Geneva convention might protect him, that he might have some value in a prisoner exchange. Was Choi right? Was he forgotten because he was a Negro? Did the Air Force not care about him?

The interrogation began to heat up; Choi stated that canisters of germs had been found in his F-86, that four people in the crowd had died of the disease—his catalog of sins went on and on.

Marshall gazed out at the tree branch, gathering himself, realizing that he somehow had to gain an advantage, to score even a small victory, to punish them for kidnapping him and treating him like this.

The questions reverted to their familiar turn—frequencies, call signs, the usual innocuous questions that they obviously hoped would be the thin edge of the wedge in getting him to respond. Then Choi asked, "Are there any newly formed units in Japan, Captain Marshall?" He'd asked the question a dozen times before, but this time Marshall answered, "No, not unless you count the Japanese divisions and squadrons."

Choi and the other members of the board who could speak English seemed to explode and a riot of translation followed as fear stalked the table.

Choi was unable to keep his voice steady. "What Japanese divisions?"

Marshall saw that he had struck a nerve. "We Americans admire the way the Japanese ran Korea. We are re-forming the first seven divisions from the old Imperial Japanese Army, using men with experience in Korea. And six squadrons of B-29s."

Choi's mouth moved but no words came out; a confused fear showed in the eyes of every man on the board, but the North Koreans were obviously far more frightened than the Chinese. More than thirty years of occupation had taught them to hate the Japanese with unbridled passion and, to fear them even more.

Marshall went on, "I'm only a captain, but even I know that by next year they'll have ten more Japanese divisions fighting in Korea. And, of course, they are designated to be the occupation troops, too."

Choi waved his arms in dismissal and the guards pulled Marshall to his feet. As Marshall left, he called over his shoulder, "The Japanese secret service is already here in Korea, taking names."

In his cell he felt a giddy joyous triumph swirl with concern that he may have gone too far. But he was left undisturbed till the next morning, and his evening ration of chook had four fishheads in it. He saved two of them for the morning.

***

Chapter 7

Pasadena, California/January 1, 1953

He bulled his way through the crowd, Saundra following in his wake like a canoe behind an ocean liner. She didn't know who was playing in the Rose Bowl but she knew who was watching them—everyone in the stadium. The procession to their fifty-yard-line seats was causing more eyes to turn than the parade had earlier in the morning.

Tapping him on the shoulder she asked, "Are the natives hostile, Fred?"

Peterson smiled his big grin and nodded. "They're not hostile, Saundra—just observant. They see that times have changed when Negroes can have such good seats."

Moving as confidently as Caesar setting up a battle line, Peterson told his party of twelve where to sit, passed out the programs, made sure that the ladies had blankets and the men had silver flasks, doing everything with the absolute assurance of a man who had made millions already and was preparing to make millions more.

She felt he handled his wealth well; nothing in his speech or his manner ever referred to money. Instead, the whole focus of his life was on accomplishment, on self-improvement—and on improving the status of the Negro. That's why he'd brought his twelve biggest clients to the Rose Bowl—to show them off.

Today his guests were mixed—also unthinkable in the past—three Negro couples and three white couples. Saundra shifted her attention to her new friends. The Negro couples were overdressed and somewhat formal; the white couples were trying hard to be friendly. After a few minutes she noticed something else; the white men would talk to both Negro men and women; the Negro men would initiate conversation with the white men only and be quietly deferential responding to the white women. The reactions among the women were more gender than race related; the more attractive of them spoke to everyone; the less attractive talked mostly with each other.

She tried to plumb her own feelings; she related to the Negro women easily, of course. And she understood the white men quite well—they were businessmen, first and foremost. But the white women were different; their movements, and their language, were different than what she was used to with Lyra and Patty. They seemed artificial, at once defensive and aggressive. It would take some time to figure them out.

"Always thinking, eh?" Fred squeezed her arm. It was not a romantic gesture, but once again she was strangely stirred by his primal power. For a moment, she wondered, wistfully almost, what she would do if he changed his manner and really tried to seduce her, then forced herself to think about his motives for having the various couples there today.

"Tell me about your friends, Fred." He turned away from the game to smile at her. "Later I'll tell you all about them. Right now let me just say that each man here has business with a counterpart; I'm the link between them."

Linkage had been the key to Peterson's financial success, but that alone didn't satisfy him. He was now seeking promising Negro businessmen—and women—and throwing his influence behind them.

Saundra was glad she was one he was trying to help. He had provided immediate financial support, as well as the services of his accounting and advertising departments. All without charge. And he had treated her with sensitivity, from their very first meeting when their chemistry had almost boiled over. Peterson had remained the perfect gentleman, respecting the fact that she was married and her husband was overseas. When she first told him that John was missing in action, he was totally sympathetic. Later, he added, "I'll never interfere in your life as long as you are married. But I am not going to step aside and let you forget me. I guarantee that I will never make a romantic move—or let you make one—until you find out what has happened. If your husband is alive, I'll simply be a friend to you both. If he is dead—and I hope he is not, truly—I'll be here."

She grew to depend upon him; he was strong, like John, like she would have wanted her father to be, if she had ever known him. They spoke every day, on the phone or in person. Once, as Peterson was driving her to dinner, the usual planning-her-business strategy had evolved into a discussion of their personal feelings.

"Fred, this isn't a fair situation. I can't go on accepting your help and not offer you anything in return."

"I'm helping you because you are a smart businesswoman. A smart
Black
businesswoman."
OBSIDIAN
was promoting the use of
Black
instead of Negro; Peterson used it invariably in the magazine, despite the controversies it ignited.

"What do you get out of it?"

"First of all, if you are a success, you'll advertise in my magazine. That's the first return. Second, if you are a success, other Black women will imitate you. It's like building a bridge, one stone at a time. You're an important stone in my bridge to equality."

"I don't want you to feel that I'm exploiting you."

"I wouldn't let you. And I'm protecting myself, just staying in touch." He paused. "Besides, I have a favor to ask of you. A business favor."

"Anything."

"There's no way for you to know, but I'm providing financial support to a number of social rights activists around the country."

"I'm not surprised."

"No, but it's potentially poison to my business. I've got to be very careful not to support anyone who could upset my customers."

"Why would they care?"

"People are worried about the Communists; if they think the Reds are supporting a Black leader, they'll be angry. That's why I want you to become a front for me, to take my money and convey it to the people I designate."

She was silent for a moment.

"There's nothing illegal about it, Saundra; I'm not trying to get any tax deductions, nothing like that. I'm simply taking my money and giving it to them. But if one of the people I support makes a wrong move, or gets in trouble—or really is a Communist; there's no way for me to know—then I could lose a lot of business—white business—that I've spent years cultivating."

"You know that I'll do it. I'm not sure that it's enough."

"Ah, back to the primary subject. Let me tell you what you really mean. You're concerned that we're not making love, as if you should be repaying my patronage in bed."

She looked away; he was right as usual. She wanted to make love to him; she felt she could not while John's fate was unresolved. Yet she felt the attraction constantly, especially in the moments when his polite manner could not conceal how much he wanted her.

"You're right. I'm ashamed of myself, but that's the way it is. But I can't betray John, not now, not knowing what's happened to him."