WHILE I WAS WATCHING THE FAST FOUR GAME WORLD SERIES DURING THE PAST FIVE EVENINGS I HAD A FLASH BACK TO 1957.
IN THOSE DAYS A LOT OF THE GAMES WERE PLAYED IN THE DAYTIME, IT WAS TIME FOR THE SERIES TO START BUT THE DEMANDS OF
THE BORDER PATROL CREATED OTHER PRIORITIES THAN SITTING AT HOME WITH AN EAR GLUED TO THE RADIO, REMEMBER THAT
FEW PEOPLE HAD TV IN THOSE DAYS SO MOST OF US HAD TO USE OUR IMAGINATIONS AND LISTEN TO SUCH EVENTS ON THE OLD FASHIONED
RADIO. HOWEVER, MOST ANNOUNCERS WERE VERY ADEPT AT PAINING A GOOD WORD PICTURE.
I HAD SOME GOOD INFORMATION
THAT A USC AND AN ILLEGAL ALIEN (THEY WERE KNOWN AS "WETBACKS" IN THOSE DAYS) WERE TRANSPORTING A LOAD OF MARIJUANA FROM MEXICO
TO CHICAGO, MY SOURCE HAD OUTLINED THE PROPOSED BACK COUNTRY ROUT FROM THE BORDER NEAR LAREDO THROUGH TEXAS. BOB
SHORT AND I, WORKING OUT OF WHARTON, TEXAS, MADE OUR WAY DOWN TO VICTORIA, TEXAS, THEN WEST INTO THE HILLS TO INTERSECT THE
PROPOSED ROUTE. WE ESTABLISHED A GOOD OBSERVATION POST ON TOP OF THE HIGHEST HILL IN THE AREA WHERE WE COULD MORE OR
LESS CONCEAL THE PATROL CAR AND WAIT OUT THE LOAD. THAT WAS ALSO THE ONLY SPOT IN THE AREA WHERE MY PORTABLE RADIO COULD RECEIVE
A SIGNAL.
NOW SINCE IT WAS THE STARTING GAME OF THE WORLD SERIES I HAD CARRIED ALONG A LARGE HEAVY BATTERY
OPERATED "PORTABLE" RADIO. I PLACED THE RADIO ON TOP OF THE CAR AND EXTENDED THE ANTENNA AS HIGH AS IT WOULD GO.
AND I GOT LUCKY. THE RECEPTION WAS PASSABLE AND THE SERIES ANNOUNCERS VOICE STARTED RINGING THROUGH THE HILLS OF SOUTH
TEXAS.
I DON'T REMEMBER WHO WAS PLAYING OR ANY OTHER DETAILS BUT I DO REMEMBER THAT OUR SUSPECTS NEVER SHOWED.
I LATER LEARNED THAT FOR SOME REASON THEY HAD CHANGED THEIR ROUTE AT THE LAST MINUTE. SOUND FAMILIAR?
HOWEVER,
THAT IS NOT THE END OF THE STORY. A COUPLE OF MONTHS LATER BOB AND I WERE MEANDERING ALONG SOUTH OF VICTORIA ON NO PARTICULAR
COURSE EXCEPT TO SEE WHAT WE COULD SEE. WE WERE HEADED SOUTH ON HIGHWAY 59 THROUGH A CONSTRUCTION ZONE.
THERE WAS ONE LANE WITH A DEEP DROP OFF ON EITHER SIDE OF THE PAVEMENT AND TRAFFIC WAS BUILDING UP AND MOVING VERY SLOWLY
THROUGH THE ZONE.
SUDDENLY I REALIZED THAT THE CAR AHEAD OF US WAS A STATION WAGON WITH AN ILLINOIS LICENSE.
HEY - THAT IS OUR PIGEON WE HAD MISSED A COUPLE OF MONTHS EARLIER. NOW THEY WERE HEADED SOUTH PROBABLY TO PICK UP ANOTHER
LOAD.
I SAW THE DRIVER OF THE STATION WAGON LOOK IN HIS REAR VIEW MIRROR. HE HAD APPARENTLY SPOTTED
THE PATROL CAR. IMMEDIATELY HIS LEFT HAND CAME OUT OF THE DRIVER'S WINDOW AND MADE A SHREDDING MOTION THEN OPENED LIKE
WE WAS SHREDDING SOME SMALL OBJECT AND THEN DROPPING IT.. THIS OPERATION WAS REPEATED SEVERAL TIMES.
I
TOLD BOB "HEY - LOOK AT THAT! I THINK THAT THE GUY IS DUMPING SOMETHING, POSSIBLY MARIJUANA CIGARETTES". WE WERE
RATHER HELPLESS AT THAT POINT BECAUSE WE COULD NOT STOP THE CAR ON THE SINGLE LANE WITH NO SHOULDERS SO JUST HAD TO
SIT PATIENTLY AND FOLLOW ALONG FOR SEVERAL MILES.
AS SOON AS WE CLEARED THE CONSTRUCTION ZONE I FLIPPED
ON THE RED LIGHT AND PULLED THE STATION WAGON OVER. THE LEFT HAND OUT OF THE WINDOW AND THE SHREDDING MOTION HAD LONG
SINCE STOPPED SO WE FIGURED THAT WHATEVER HE WAS GETTING RID OF WAS LONG GONE. NEVERTHE LESS, MY INFORMATION WAS THAT
AN ILLEGAL ALIEN TRAVELED WITH HIM SO I MADE THE STOP.
I TOOK THE DRIVER'S SIDE AND BOB SHORT TOOK THE PASSENGER.
THE DRIVER QUICKLY IDENTIFIED HIMSELF AS A U,S. CITIZEN. HOWEVER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CAR THE PASSENGER IMMEDIATELY
ADMITTED THAT HE WAS AN ILLEGAL ALIEN FROM MEXICO. BOB THEN REMOVED HIM FROM THE CAR AND PROCEEDED TO SEARCH HIM.
SUDDENLY BOB CALLED TO ME AND SAID "COME LOOK AT THIS". HE HAD EXTRACTED FOUR MARIJUANA CIGARETTES FROM THE ALIENS SHIRT
POCKET.
AT THAT POINT WE PLACED THE ALIEN IN THE PATROL CAR AND INFORMED THE U.S. CITIZEN DRIVER THAT WE WERE
TAKING THE ALIEN TO THE COUNTY JAIL IN VICTORIA AND HE WOULD BE CHARGED WITH BOTH BEING ILLEGALLY IN THE COUNTRY AND POSSESSION
OF MARIJUANA. AT THAT POINT THE DRIVER ASKED DIRECTIONS TO THE SHERIFF';S OFFICE WHICH WAS SEVERAL MILES NORTH OF OUR
LOCATION. I SIMPLY TOLD THE MAN THAT SINCE WE WERE HEADED THERE HE COULD JUST FOLLOW US. NOT AN ORDER - JUST PROVIDING
THE INFORMATION HE HAD REQUESTED..
NOTE" THE ALIEN HAD READILY ADMITTED HIS ILLEGAL STATUS BECAUSE HE
ASSUMED THAT WE WOULD QUICKLY SEND HIM TO MEXICO WHERE HE COULD REJOIN HIS COMPANION. THEY HAD A PRETTY COULD OPERATION
GOING. WHEN THEY REACHED A REMOTE SECTION OF THE BORDER IN THE LAREDO AREA THEY WOULD SCOUT THE AREA AND IF THERE
WERE NO BORDER PATROL PRESENT THE ALIEN WOULD SLIP ACROSS THE BORDER, PICK UP THE PREVIOUSLY ARRANGED FOR LOAD OF MARIJUANA,
BRING IT BACK ACROSS TO THE VEHICLE, AND THEY WOULD BE ON THEIR WAY. WHEN THE ALIEN WAS FERRYING THE STUFF ACROSS THE
BORDER IF THE PATROL SHOWED UP THE CITIZEN WOULD JUST DRIVE OFF CLEAN AND COME BACK AFTER THE PATROL HAD MOVED ON. THE
ALIEN WOULD CONCEAL THE LOAD AS HE BROUGHT IT ACROSS AND THEY WOULD NOT LOAD THE VEHICLE UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE AFTER A FINAL
CHECK OF THE AREA FOR THE PATROL
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE WE INFORMED THE SHERIFF WHAT WE HAD.
HE THEN ASKED PERMISSION FROM THE U.S.C. TO DO A BODY SEARCH. THE MAN, CONFIDENT THAT HE HAD DISPOSED OF ANY EVIDENCE
OF ANY ILLEGAL SUBSTANCE COOPERATED AND AGREED TO BE SEARCHED. HA HA. THE SHERIFF CAME UP WITH A SMALL BATTERY
POWERED VACUUM AND PROCEEDED TO VACUUM THE MAN'S POCKETS. EXAMINATION OF THE CONTENTS OF THE VACUUM BAG PRODUCED MINUTE
AMOUNTS OF MARIJUANA. THE SHERIFF USED A NEW BAG FROM A NEW SEALED CONTAINER ON EACH SUCH SEARCH. LATER ON SEARCHING
THE CAR WE FOUND TWENTY FIVE POUNDS OF THE WEED CONCEALED IN THE DRIVER'S DOOR PANEL.
THE PAIR HAD BROUGHT
ALONG SOME WEED TO SELL ALONG THE WAY TO PAY THE EXPENSES OF THE TRIP AND ALSO FOR THEIR PERSONAL USE.
BOTH WERE
THEN CHARGED WITH POSSESSION OF A CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE AND PLACED IN THE VICTORIA COUNTY JAIL TO AWAIT TRIAL. THEY WERE
GRANTED A COURT APPOINTED LOCAL ATTORNEY. HOWEVER A HIGH PRICED ATTORNEY FROM NEW YORK SHOWED UP TO ADVISE THE HICK
TOWN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER.
I DID NOT MENTION THAT MY SOURCE HAD INDICATED THAT THIS PAIR WAS WORKING
FOR A LARGE CRIME SYNDICATE OPERATION OUT OF NEW YORK. OF COURSE I COULD NOT USE THAT INFORMATION IN COURT BUT IT BECAME
RATHER OBVIOUS ANYWAY BECAUSE OF THE PRESENCE OF THE HIGH PRICED NEW YORK ATTORNEY.
DURING THE TRIAL THE QUESTION
OF ILLEGAL SEARCH AND SEIZURE CAME UP. I INFORMED THE COURT THAT THE ILLEGAL ALIEN HAD IMMEDIATELY ADMITTED HIS STATUS
AND THEN WE LEGALLY TOOK HIM INTO CUSTODY AND LEGALLY SEARCHED HIS BODY.
"HOW ABOUT THE U.S.CITIZEN? WHAT
AUTHORITY DID YOU HAVE TO SEARCH HIM AND THE VEHICLE?
I ANSWERED THAT WE DID NOT SEARCH EITHER THE U.S,.C. OR
THE VEHICLE. AFTER ARRIVING AT THE JAIL THE SUBJECT GRANTED PERMISSION TO THE SHERIFF FOR THE SEARCH AND THE SHERIFF
CONDUCTED THE SEARCH OF BOTH THE PERSON AND THE AUTOMOBILE.
THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY DUG IN ON THE SEARCH
QUESTION AND ASKED "WHAT IF THE DRIVER HAD NOT ASKED TO FOLLOW YOU TO THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE AND HAD NOT VOLUNTEERED TO BE SEARCHED
BY THE SHERIFF.? "
I ANSWERED SIMPLY "THAT SITUATION DID NOT ARISE" THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY WAS LIKE A DOG WITH
A BONE AND WOULD NOT TURN LOOSE. AGAIN HE ASKED " WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE HAD THE SUBJECT NOT AGREED"/
AGAIN
I ANSWERED "THAT SITUATION DID NOT ARISE"
THE ATTORNEY JUST KEPT ON WITH THE SAME QUESTION AND THE
SAME ANSWER RETURNED UNTIL THE JUDGE INTERVENED AND SAID " HENDERSON HAS ANSWERED YOUR QUESTION HONESTLY AND COMPLETELY
. THAT SITUATION DID NOT ARISE AND HE CAN NOT BE REQUIRED BY THIS COURT TO SPECULATE ON ANY AND EVERY POSSIBLE
ALTERNATIVE SITUATION THAT COULD HAVE TAKEN PLACE".
END OF MY TESTIMONY. BOTH SUBJECTS WERE CONVICTED
AND SENTENCED TO SERVE FIVE YEARS IN THE TEXAS PRISON SYSTEM.
WHAT IS THAT SAYING? "DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS".
AFTER
THE TRIAL WAS OVER THE JUDGE, THE PROSECUTOR, THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY,THE SHERIFF, AND BOB SHORT AND I JOINED FOR COFFEE
AT THE LOCAL COFFEE SHOP. THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY COULD NOT HEAP ENOUGH PRAISE ON ME FOR MY STONEWALLING OF HIS REPEATED
/ILLEGAL SEARCH AND SEIZURE" ATTACK. HE WAS A GOOD GUY AND A FRIEND AND HE REALLY WANTED TO SEE THOSE BAD
BOYS CONVICTED BUT OF COURSE HE HAD THE OBLIGATION TO GET A FAIR TRIAL FOR THEM.
INCIDENTALLY, THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY
WAS THE ONE WHO ALERTED US TO THE 25 POUNDS OF WEED CONCEALED IN THE VEHICLE DOOR PANEL. OF COURSE THAT INFORMATION
WAS NOT USED IN THE TRIAL.
SO THAT WAS HOW THE FIRST GAME OF THE 1957 WORLD SERIES TURNED OUT. I
DON'T REMEMBER WHO WON THE BALL GAME BUT I WON MY GAME. IT JUST TOOK A LITTLE TIME AND A LOT OF LUCK.
Our Border Patrol Agents have continued to make us all proud. I thank them for their service,
love for our country and loyalty to it and the American people.
OTRO REQUERDO DE PRESIDIO BRAVE MAN OR DAMNED FOOL? By Ed Chauvin
Before Owen Oates chronicles the entire 20th Century history of Presidio, permit me to relate
one tale that he may not know or may have forgotten.
First, for a little background, I spent the three years immediately
prior to entering on duty at El Paso in May 1956 as a full-time bus operator in New Orleans, operating gas, diesel
and electric trolley buses.
Up until that time, the Service had participated in a cooperative program whereby some
illegal aliens were repatriated to Quintana Roo, Mexico by boatlift. The transport was handled by Mexican authorities
on two boats the U.S. Navy had sold them, one of which was named the “Emancipacion”. I can’t recall
the name of the other ship. In any event, I understand each vessel had a capacity of approximately 400 souls, plus the
Mexican crew and one U.S. Immigration Officer, whose job was to confirm that all repatriates were transported to their
ultimate destination.
Some time during the summer of 1956, I understand that one of the vessels had engine trouble
and had to anchor 3 or 4 miles offshore short of Quintana Roo. The story was that a number of repatriates demanded that
the ship be docked at the nearest port so they could debark. Reportedly, the crew refused, whereupon several of the
repatriates dove overboard and attempted to swim to shore. Unfortunately, a number of them failed, and drowned.
Subsequently,
there was a congressional investigation of the incident and the boatlift program. I understand that some described the
vessel as a “hell ship”, while others described the removal procedure as a “pleasant Caribbean cruise”.
In any event, the boatlift was cancelled permanently and El Paso Sector was directed to bus lift as many illegal aliens
to Presidio as possible, to be turned over to Mexican authorities at Ojinaga to be transported to Chihuahua City by
train.
After my first brief assignment to the sand hills, where I was informed in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t
track a bleeding elephant through a snowdrift, (at least I tried) I was relegated to line watch duties. When the call
came for experienced bus drivers I jumped at the chance. It fit my dream of a job where the customer was always wrong
and I could drive for miles and miles down the highway, instead of stopping every two blocks.
Another unexpected
benefit to the bus lift was the fact that the Service paid $12.00 per diem for each round trip. At the time, GS-7 trainees
received the princely sum of $4,080 per annum salary. With a wife and three kids, that $36.00 a week, gross, really
helped pay the rent and put food on the table.
Anyway, we would leave every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night
at 8:00 P.M., usually one P.I. and one detention officer, and take turns driving all night, with coffee stops in Sierra
Blanca and Valentine. We would arrive in Presidio about 6:00 or 7:00 A.M. and flip to see who would drive the bus to the
switch track near Ojinaga where the train awaited. There were usually one passenger car and one cattle car. Those repatriates
who had sufficient dinero got to ride in the passenger car to Chihuahua City.
In Presidio, there was to my recollection
one hotel, owned and operated by a gentleman whose last name was Harper. Mr. Harper was at that time about 75, my
current age, while I was 24. His establishment catered principally to hunters, and he had several large dormitory rooms
with metal cots, where we would sleep after feasting on the boarding house style breakfast for $1.25. We would be
awakened at noon and consume an all-you-can-eat lunch for $1.50. Since the cots we occupied were available to his other
guests at night we were only charged $1.00 each to sleep. If we didn’t splurge at the coffee shops, we could
salvage 4 or 5 dollars from the per diem each trip.
Mr. Harper frequently regaled us with tales of what to us were
the “olden days”, and on one occasion I asked him how he came to be in Presidio. He stated that sometime
in the 1910’s he and his drummer partner arrived in Marfa with a horse, a mule and a wagon loaded with pots, pans
and other sundries. He and his partner got into an argument as to whether they should continue west to El Paso, or
go to closer Presidio. He stated that he bought out his partner’s share of the mule, wagon and merchandise and wound
up in Presidio. His partner, he stated, continued on to El Paso and opened up what ultimately became the largest store
there, the White House Department Store.
Mr. Harper informed us that every year after the close of hunting season he
would drive to El Paso and purchase a large stock of linen and other necessaries for the hotel. He drove an almost
new Oldsmobile sedan, his overall health appeared good, and most of the roads were in good shape.
On one occasion
during our sumptuous lunch, he casually mentioned that he had been robbed on his last trip to El Paso, a week or so previously.
Immediately interested, we all asked what happened, and he stated that while driving west through Sierra Blanca, he
picked up a hitchhiker. He stated they drove along without incident for some time, until he stopped for a traffic
light in Ysleta, whereupon the young hitchhiker pulled a knife and demanded he turn over his money and his car.
Mr.
Harper stated that he told the young man emphatically that he could not have his car, because he was too old and could
not get back to his home in Presidio without it, so if he was going to kill him for the car, then go ahead and do
so. Apparently taken aback, the hitchhiker then demanded that he turn over his money.
Mr. Harper admitted that
at the time, he had a considerable amount of cash in his wallet, intended to pay for supplies for his hotel. However,
he stated, he happened to recall that when he stopped for gas he had placed two bills, a twenty and a five, in a front
pants pocket. He said he was concentrating hard and trying desperately to remember which way he had folded the bills
and which side the five dollar bill was on. When he drew one of the bills out of his pocket, he stated, “Thank God
it was the five”. He handed it to the young man, who immediately exited the car. I asked Mr. Harper if he notified
the police, and he said he didn’t have time to fool with that.
Since that story, I have often pondered the
wisdom of an unarmed man that age risking his life for a twenty-dollar bill in a confrontation with a possibly dangerous
criminal. Then again, maybe that’s what men were made of back in the real “olden days”.
Early one hot late summers
morning I left McAllen Border Patrol Station and went Northwest. I picked up a trail in La Gloria, Texas,
coming off of the Diamond-O Ranch that Rio Grande City, Texas, Agents had been running the previous day up from Las Brisas.
I guesstimated a time frame and went ahead to try to cut the sign. This area north and east of La Gloria was sort of a no
mans land that encompassed two Sectors and about four station areas that was quite remote and difficult to access.
Sam Scaief was one of
Dudley Clanahans pilots that flew out of McAllen Station in the early 80's. Sam knew that I had gone up toward La Gloria that
morning and why I had gone. Sam loved to work trail. So it was quite natural that Sam came looking for me in the new Cessna
after he had attended to his assigned area. Sam sure liked to wiggle the wings on that bird and it didn't take long for us
to hook up. Sam found me up on the Kelsey Bass Pipeline where I had cut the group and lined them out using pink toilet paper
to mark that particular trail. Sam didn't reserve his opinion about the choice of colors that day. Since it was common to
be working several trails through this roadless area at a time, it made it easier if we used
different colored paper
to mark which trail was which for the pilots so they could fly an extended line ahead and stay on the right trail. All they
had to do was line up the like colored markers and fly that line up ahead.
During our sojourn that
day we covered a lot of ground. Sam went back to various airports and fueled up twice. He was on his third tank of fuel when
he came back to my location for the last time. I watched as Sam passed over my head and climbed almost out of sight. Somewhat
curious, I inquired as to where he was going ? His reply was simple. "I am going up to 72 Degrees. Call me if you need me."
Shortly, I could hardly
see the Cessna and could just barely hear him northeast of my location. By this time, we had trailed the group almost to the
HWY 755, HWY 281 intersection near a pueblito called Encino, Texas.
It was then, and remains today, the hottest day I can recall working sign cut in the South Texas sandhills.
I was on foot trailing this group through the Brooks County Sand when I came upon their lay up. I could smell the aliens
before I could make out the lay up. A man would have had to have had a really bad cold not to have picked up the scent. Naturally,
I approached the area cautiously. The group had rooted and wallered around quite a bit and had spent considerable time in
that bit of brush.
About 200 yards away
and in their direction of travel was a large concrete stock tank full of water. I told Sam I could smell aliens and could
see they were going toward a stock tank. Sam said 10-4 and stayed at 72 Degrees.
I followed the group
from the lay up to the stock tank. At the stock tank I could see where they had just watered a short while earlier and had
left a jug full of water tilted over on the sand. The water was still filtering into the sand. I advised Sam of this, he replied
10-4 and stayed at 72 Degrees.
As I followed the groups
sign away from the stock tank I could see from their tracks that they were running. I found one of their tennies that one
had literally run out of. I advised Sam of this, he replied 10-4 and stayed up there at 72 Degrees.
A short distance from
the tennis shoe I found a cigarette that had been lit just before being thrown on the ground, the ash was only about an inch
long and still smouldering.
I advised Sam of this
latest discovery and as I looked skyward, I saw the Cessna bank hard right and dive straight at me like a green tail hawk
after a blue quail. Sam then circled left and came up behind me low and smooth. (You can't call a Cessna quiet) I saw the
first aliens buggered up in the Oak Mont just ahead of me as Sam swooped over us. He called out that they were scattered out
in the brush just ahead of me.
As we went through the
process of gathering them all up and counting noses, Sam stayed pretty close. After we got the whole bunch rounded up and
lined out he stayed with us until we got the aliens back to my unit, which took quite a while. He even helped me navigate
out of that remote pasture before resuming 72 degrees and a southern route.
Yes sir. If anyone asks
you about Sam The Man Scaief, you can tell them that he was a great sign cut pilot, and, that if he couldn't find anything
else while out sign cutting he could and did find 72 Degrees
From the trees, the leaves fall to the ground a crashing
To think, these leaves were once so green,
And how they've seen their brightest day.
Now, here they lay, gold and brown,
Following the path of a mighty wind,
Each goes its way - not knowing what life will have to lend.
No matter how much more time they have
There's still some pleasure to be seen
When you look at these golden leaves and think
How life has finally set them free.
Lucinda Rainbolt Scola
8/l7/07
The Zany Adventures of John Colbert II
By
Owen Oates
In 1960 Jim Greene decided or was told to replace all the temporary PIs in Florida with permanent ones. He or somebody
could not read the Castro situation correctly and had kept 13 border patrol stations in Florida occupied by 200 or more PIs
on temporary duty at $12 per day for two years. A lot of wasted money.
In September John and I were shipped over as permanent replacements. I went to Ft. Pierce and John to Miami. It was great
duty (except for the heat) and a great place to live and work and play.
John did not get along with his supervisors in Miami, nor with his roommate, Bill Clausen. He needed a friend and someone
to give him a little sympathy and someone to drink with. He sought a benison from me.
John was in a league all by himself with regard to beer drinking. I couldn't hold that much nor did I want to. I was
in the fortunate position of knowing a pilot that flew out of Ed Treat's flying service to the Bahamas about once a week.
He could and did bring me back a gallon (five fifths) of Haig & Haig Gold Star for $18. I gave him $20 and forgot
the change and could, in that way, offer my friends good whisky and little cost.
I lived on the beach at Ft. Pierce in a small group of apartments at 415 Hernando in a one-bedroom apartment. The bedroom
had twin beds and could accommodate John when he came up.
John came up often. After about a year at Miami he was disgusted. He would call me up, find out if I was home, and come
up.
The Sunshine State Parkway had just been completed from the Mixmaster in Miami to Ft. Pierce. It was 120 miles of four
lane concrete highway with a grass divider in the middle. The roadway was without faults.
John had a new Ford Thunderbird and he liked to drive fast. He didn't bother to keep time because he was usually sloshed
when he started out. Didn't matter anyway.
One weekend John called and said he was on his way up. That was a Friday afternoon and about dark he arrived at my door.
He went through the few beers I had in my icebox, and then we started in on the Haig.
Two days of this went on except for the times we went out to eat. John didn't eat much when he was drunk. His eyes would
cross and he couldn't read the menu. Sometimes he would ask the waitress but usually he would get into it with her. He would
tell a dirty joke or ask her a personal question and she would leave.
Then, on Sunday night, John's weekend was over. He started back to Miami. He was loaded up on good Scotch when he stopped
at the entrance to the parkway to get his ticket (The parkway was a toll road).
He left about dark and came back through the same toll booth about half an hour later holding his ticket and two dollars.
The girl took the ticket, looked at it quizzically, and asked him where he thought he was. "Miami, of course", John answered.
She called the highway patrol and told John to park over there.
The highway patrolman got his story and called me. I went out to see what was happening.
I had made a good friend among the highway patrol, a trooper named Peterson. I rode with him often at night, telling
our Miami radio operator where I was and telling him that I could be contacted in car # 265 on the H.P frequency.
I asked the trooper talking to John to call Peterson if he was on duty. He was and came up there zip-zip. Peterson was
a loud guy who was always joking around and when he found out what had happened he had a good laugh on John.
I asked him to parole him to my custody. Peterson agreed and let me take him home and put him to bed. He did and Peterson
put the car in the parking lot of the employees manning the toll booth.
John sobered up Monday morning and called in sick. It took him awhile to get himself together but he did and left again
for Miami about noon and made it safely this time.
A few days later I ran into Peterson. He told me that he had gone down the parkway after we broke up and discovered what
had happened.
John was headed south on the inside lane at probably a high rate of speed when he went to sleep. His car angled off the
roadway into the grass median. Just as it hit the bottom of the median the left front wheel ran over the iron grating of a
drain.
All that part of Florida is low-lying and drains were installed every mile or so on the parkway to handle those South
Florida rains.
When this happened, when the LF wheel dropped an inch or two onto that grating, the rear of the car skidded to the right
as if to continue on to Miami. When the car passed over the grating and the rear of the car had done a 180, John woke up.
The car was now back on the pavement and John just straightened up and drove on. But he was driving North without knowing
it.
So he came back through the Ft. Pierce tollbooth without any sense of the time elapsed. He didn't understand all this
until I explained it to him. He was nonplussed.
John was a fool whose antics made life a little more interesting for me. He never quite understood that his shenanigans
were outside the realm of normal behavior. His stunts were outrageous, as we will see in a later story.
_______________
Don't tell me cocaine is habit-forming. I've been taking it for 17 years and I ought to know---Talullah Bankhead
OO
Bob Stille on Jimmy Greer
Jimmy Greer had just come back to duty when I was a probationer at El Paso,
and worked the desk in old Station One. He was probably the most brilliant, and unasuming man I ever worked with.
His knowledge of Spanish was impeccable as well as Mexican history.
I had the privilege of sitting at Station One from time to time and catch
snatches of conversation with Jimmy. He was not only a genius but a very humble, and gentle soul.
One day the guys brought in a small Mexican boy. The kid was one
of the street urchins that we caught regularly around the bridges. The boy was trying to put on his best bravado in
midst of a bunch of patrol officers. Jimmy got up with some difficulty, as he was wearing heavy metal braces on both
legs, went over, got the boy and brought him back to his desk and sat him down by him. He began talking to the boy--in
Spanish, of course--in a priestly manner. The boy quieted down and sat for a long time and just listened intently as
this blonde hair, gringo Migrante talked to him. The boy was mesmerized by Jimmy.
I don't know what Jimmy said to him but he talked to the little boy for
quite awhile before he was VR'd later.
Jimmy also told me a lot about his childhood, being raised in Mexico, the
family's expulsion to Texas, and some of his experiences as a Special Detail officer. Of course, as you "old timer PIs"
know, Special Detail was the forerunner to the Anti Smuggling Unit (ASU).
I worked with several of the Special Detail officers at El Paso during
those early years of my career. Jimmy Greer, Jim Tice, Val Herrera, John Sanchez, Red Dog Lewis are some that come to
mind. Great bunch of guys who did a very special and dangerous job for the Border Patrol combatting alien smuggling.
Jimmy Greer and John Sanchez told some stories that would raise the hair
on the back of a javelina. A person could write a book that would excel fiction about what those Special Detail officers
did back in the fifties.
Back when I was on probation in El Paso...1959...someone in our group swung an exhibition baseball game with
the El Paso AA team. I believe they were called The El Paso Suns. These were all professional ball players, some
of whom probably went on to the major leagues. We were just a bunch of P.I.s in doubtful condition. Although most
of our team had recently graduated from the Academy in El Paso and were in reasonably good shape and young.
So, the day came and we lined up to play the Suns. Our pitcher was Teddy Giorgetti. Now Ted was the
most naturally gifted athlete I had ever seen. And as we found out he had a blazing fast ball. Ted was in his
late twenties at that time, as I remember.
Anyway, we played 9 innings against the Suns and were doing very well for a bunch of amature P.I.s. The
main reason we did so well was that the Suns found out that they had difficulty hitting Teddy's pitches. He threw fast
ball after fast ball, and probably some curves and other stuff, too and was striking out these minor league pros one after
another.
Well, at the end of the day, they did beat us but by a very narrow margin.
After the game, the manager of the Suns came to Teddy and offered him a contract right there on the spot to pitch
for them. Fortunately for the Border Patrol and later the INS Teddy stayed with us and went on to a great career, retiring
as ADDI at Chicago.
Great memories...great recuerdos of times gone by.
Back in 1966 we had new Ford sedans that came with a security screen separating the front seat from the back.
One day when coming back to the station with my partner George Hunter we heard an urgent cry over the radio from Salinas Station
to get a Sector pilot there as soon as possible. Back then we all had the habit to leave the vehicle keys on the floor under
the front seat when the Wets were spooked and had taken off. This was to enable the first officer back to drive and pick up
their partner and any apprehended aliens they caught. We as a general policy would handcuff the wets and leave them in the
back seat, while we went after the others who had scattered. The Officers involved had one in the back seat and were out in
the brush looking for the others.
Seemed the screen on the cars were not that secure. The illegal in the back seat was able to bend the screen and crawl
to the front seat, get the keys and steal the patrol car, thus the call for an airplane. The pilot was able to find the vehicle
at a Contract Labor Housing area and the vehicle was recovered. The only damage was the security screen. The next morning
when going out to start another day, Salinas called in a negative apprehension report. My partner George immediately picked
up the radio and off the repeater was heard throughout the Sector as he said" I thought you guys had one in the car yesterday".
Silence ensued from Salinas but the rest of he Sector had a good laugh. Needless to say the security screens were all re-inforced
by the Service on all sedans.
Dave Rhodin --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
DOC VAUGHT
by
Owen Oates
Doc Vaught was an eclectic doctor who received a Doctor of Medicine degree from a medical school in Kansas that he attended
for six months sometime about 1930. He settled in Presidio, set up a practice, and married a local girl named Filomina.
Sometime along the way he bought a house, enclosed the back porch, and made an office for seeing patients. He had a thriving
business, as there were no other doctors for 60 miles in any direction.
He could prescribe any drugs on the market, but he was careful not to reach into the darkness beyond his knowledge and
careful not to hurt anyone. He learned in only a few years that most illnesses were psychosomatic and he treated them as such,
mostly with sugar pills. He told me this himself.
He could set broken limbs as neatly as anyone. He made house calls for broken legs or anyone too ill to travel. Broken
arms had to be brought to his office. He did not have the makings for a cast. Whether they were difficult to make, too expensive,
or some other reason I never did learn. He would take two thin boards, put one on each side of the break, and then tape the
whole thing up with adhesive tape. Tight enough, this would last long enough for the break to heal.
In his early days he charged fifty cents for an office visit, of course the drugs were extra (Presidio had no drugstore
and none were closer than another doctor), and by the time I got there he was up to three dollars.
His proudest achievement, he told me, was to deliver three babies in one day, one in Ruidoso, thirty miles upriver from
Presidio, one in Presidio, and one in Redford, sixteen miles below Presidio. With a model A Ford and the roads in the 1930s
this was an heroic accomplishment.
He trained his wife, Filomina, in the medical arts and by the time I got to presidio she was seeing patients and prescribing
medicine when he was absent. When he was present and with a Mexican patient, she did the interpreting.
People in town laughed about this, but she never killed anyone or made anyone sicker. The women liked her and called
her "La Doctora". She also kept the books and kept track of the pills and medicines and ordered more from Kansas City when
needed.
Doc never sent a bill. If the patient could pay at his office, he collected. If not, the patient usually left a promise
to pay which Doc never attempted to collect. He did have to have money for the drugs though, and many a poor Mexican left
with the illness identified but no means to correct it.
FRANK DUPUY
Frank Dupuy owned the bridge across the Rio Grande between Presidio and Ojinaga. He had built it during the 1930s under
a permit issued by the Boundary and Water Commission. There had been no bridge there until he persuaded this bureau to issue
a permit although this was not the right agency to do it and the State Department ignored many requests to look into it and
build a free bridge.
Dupuy charged a toll. Sixty five cents per auto when I was there, and that irked people. He had a Mexican kid sitting
in a little hut at the end of the bridge on the U.S. side collecting from cars both ways. And that irked people.
Dupuy was an absentee landlord and that irked people. Dupuy lived in El Paso and the Mexican kid had to call in the amount
of tolls collected every night. Dupuy appeared to be avaricious, not an attractive trait.
Dupuy came down once in a while to inspect his property and even stayed a few days when the great flood of 1958 washed
away the bridge and sent our best patrol car tumbling down the river. He had a new bridge built, higher, and better than the
one that got washed away.
When he came to Presidio he could feel the wrath of people on both sides seething with resentment. Some called him names.
Dupuy would not stay in town long. He would inspect his bridge, talk to the customs inspectors, and leave the same day he
came. Anyway the trip was deductible.
The port of Presidio was a class B port, meaning that the port was closed from midnight to 8 a.m. There was a big wooden
gate on the bridge that the customs agent would lock at midnight and then go home.
When we PIs wanted to go to Ojinaga to drink a good beer or to feel the soothing embraces of some sinful activity, we
had to decide before we went whether we would come back before or after midnight. If before, we could drive over. If later,
we would leave our car at the bridge.
Frank Mireles had a gambling casino just across the bridge. Some of the guys preferred to gamble a little, but most of
us went on uptown and later to La Zona. This required a taxi and cost about a dollar.
Then, in the small hours of the morning, another taxi brought us to the bridge. We walked across, climbing the wooden
gates. We were immigration officers and we admitted ourselves to the United States. We didn't pay the toll.
Dupuy lost that toll collection and he lost more when he tangled with Doc Vaught.
It was in 1960, I think. I was driving a jeep, alone, either to or from Redford (I can't remember which). I don't know
if I heard the shots or not but something caused me to look up the gravel road running to the school. I saw an older, blue
General Motors car run off the road into the ditch, hit something, bounce up and down, and then stop.
On the way up there I saw Doc Vaught standing in his front yard, just inside his front gate, holding a rifle by the barrel
with the butt on the ground. I stopped at the blue car. I knew immediately that the man was dead. He was slumped over the
steering wheel and the horn was a plangent. I pulled the dead man off the horn and turned the ignition off.
Examining the scene I could see a bullet hole in the windshield just inches from Dupuy's nose, another in his neck, and
the third missed his head behind and exited through the right rear window. Doc Vaught had sent three bullets from a Winchester
45-70 lever action rifle into a moving car from about 150 feet away and the pattern was no bigger than the diameter of a basketball.
The bullet that killed Dupuy went in his neck. The entry wound was ugly, a raw, red sore, as big as the last joint of
your thumb, with the blood oozing out of it. It must have cut his spine because when I pulled him off the horn his head flopped
over at an unnatural angle. I got on the radio and called the sheriff.
Soon "Three-fingered" Tommy McCall, the local deputy, arrived with several other people. That was the second dead man
I had seen that week and that was enough for me. I got out of there. It was none of my business.
Doc told McCall that Dupuy was coming from El Paso and had stopped in Marfa and telephoned Doc telling him that he was
coming to "fix his wagon." Doc didn't have a wagon and suspected a sinister motive. He told Dupuy to come on down and he would
arrange a nice reception.
The sheriff arrested Doc, charged him with murder, and let him out on a small bond. The prosecuting attorney asked the
judge for a change of venue. The reason was that the local people liked Doc and hated Dupuy and he couldn't get a fair trial.
Marfa was the county seat and they moved the trial to Alpine, 26 miles away.
That was not far enough and the prosecuting attorney got another ruling and they moved the trial to Alice, Texas. There
was a hung jury once and then a retrial lasting several months in all. Doc told the jury about the threatening phone call
Dupuy made from Marfa, but there were no witnesses, no corroborating evidence. One thing in favor of his story was that when
highway 67 hit Presidio Dupuy would have had to turn right to inspect his bridge but instead he turned left down the Redford
highway.
That was the way to Doc's house and, indeed, he was but half a block away when Doc gave him the promised reception. This
must have been on the jury's mind. Sweet shooting may have influenced them too because good marksmanship is never far from
a Texan's mind. They found a gun in Dupuy's car, but you could have found one in any car in West Texas so that didn't prove
much.
The jury acquitted Doc but the costs of the trial and room and board in Alice for so long had ruined him. He sold his
home and property in Presidio and moved upcountry to some place where he could rent a nice place and maybe find some work.
Dupuy had a son who took over managing the bridge and the situation remained that way until sometime in the 1970s, I
think it was, that the U.S. and Mexico got an agreement and built a new, nice, concrete and steel bridge. This bridge was
free on our side but Mexico, having lost out on the tolls for forty some odd years, now rectified that and began collecting
tolls on their side.
It was, some say, a tragedy of comic proportions. Or vice versa.
OO
Retirement
It was a fire...a fire he stoked for 27 years...and when
the day came when he was called upon to put out that fire for the last
time, his wife and his oldest and youngest children were waiting there to take
him home.
This badge of honor is the core
of a family....our Border Patrol family. When my Father died, an arrow
with the sharpest of all points pierced the core of my heart, and I will never
be the same.
There were
several colorful characters in Presidio when I got there in 1958. One of the most interesting was Ma Daniels. She had a store,
mostly dry goods, nearest to the POE of all the businesses in town. The poor women of Ojinaga would come over and buy cloth
by the yard from Ma. She had all the other stuff to go with it: thimbles, needles, dye, ribbons, elastic, patterns, buttons,
thread, etc., and she had a good business going. She kept some Blue Jeans, straw hats, boots of the most popular sizes, some
overalls, and some tools she would buy on the street corner of the place she went to get the cloth.
Pa was too
old and feeble to drive so Ma secured a Mexican driver about 20 years of age. About once a month he would drive her to Ft.
Stockton, Pecos, and sometimes Dallas. She would load that station wagon of hers so full of bolts of cloth and odds and ends
you couldn't see out of any window.
Ma was about 70, I would judge, and she was constantly busy while in the
store and most people were in awe of her energy. When a new PI or a new anybody came into town he would, sooner or later,
find himself in Ma's store. She would go over, grab his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, and ask, "And whose little
boy are you?" Answers didn't seem to mind to Ma; she had her way and that suited her.
Nobody knew where Ma had
come from. She had been there since the end of WWII and had been in Kansas City, some say servicing the servicemen, before
that. I got to talking with her one day about this and that, and she told me, "Honey, when I was young and didn't know anything
I gave it away. When I got older and smarter I sold it. Now in my old age I'm having to buy it all back."
It
was the young Mexican chauffeur that we expected was the beneficiary of Ma's benevolence. He had look of serendipity on his
face when anyone asked him leading questions. He made himself scarce when he wasn't working in the store. He also kept that
huge station wagon running.
Pa died while I was there and Ma had him buried in the Catholic cemetery though
he claimed that what little Christianity still remained in him was all Protestant. Ma seemed happier after that, though it
seems a sacrilege to mention it. Might have had something to do with being able to see her chauffeur and mechanic oftener
than once a month.
Dink Smoot
Dink was
about 80 when I got to Presidio in 1958. He was a retired drummer for a wholesale grocery firm. The firm was up in Pecos or
somewhere and he traveled around to the small towns of West Texas taking orders from the small grocery stores that furnished
victuals to their locals. Somehow Dink thought Presidio was the place to retire and so he did.
Most people would
avoid Presidio because it was so hot. When El Bandido Harper had the weather station he called in the temperatures
twice a day and Presidio usually made hottest place in the country about one day out of three in the Summer.
Dink
apparently did not mind the heat; he wore long handled underwear--top and bottoms--all year around and he also wore khaki
pants and long sleeved shirts buttoned at the wrist.
Dink drew $35 or $40 a month pension from the grocery firm
and I don't think he had social security or any other source of income. He lived in a lean-to shack someone had added to the
back of the Casner Motor Co. I think he lived rent free and doubt that he had many amenities. I know he didn't have electricity
nor air conditioning.
He stretched his income by asking anyone going to Marfa to bring him back a few pounds
of Pinto Beans because the ones in Presidio were not as good. Naturally those of us that brought him the superior beans refused
payment of the dollar or so the beans cost.
Many people of reduced circumstances become meek so as not to offend
anyone who may provide a benefit somewhere along the way. That was not Dink's way. He was feisty and out spoken and likely
to give you an opinion, unvarnished in any way, on any topic under discussion.
There was a farmer in Presidio
universally detested by Mexicans and gringos alike. He owned almost a thousand acres right on the river and his cotton crop--using
wet labor-- got him rich. It was his manner and demeanor, however, that made him detested. He was haughty and looked down
on everybody in that small community. His name was J.C. Poole and everyone referred to him as J. Cess Poole.
He
had a son who was an identical copy of the old man in attitude and demeanor. He had gotten to be a Justice of the Peace when
he was 21, some years before I got there. He carried two guns and shot a young Mexican to death over some altercation in a
beer joint and got away with it. He was detested even more than his father.
Dink usually spent his days in the
metal lawn chairs on the front porch of the Halpern Hotel. However, one day, he was sitting atop the concrete steps of a customs
broker beside J. Cess Poole. Poole was commenting on the people passing along the main street below them.
Someone
drove by and Poole said to Dink, "there goes a no-good son-of-a-bitch" and went back to his discussion on another topic. Soon
another person drove by. Poole looked up, watched the car drive by and commented, "There goes another no-good son of a bitch"
and resumed his discussion. Bye and bye another vehicle drove by. Poole looked up, watched the vehicle drive by and saw that
it was his son. He lowered his head. Dink spoke up, "and there goes another no-good son of a bitch". Poole got up and walked
away.
After I left Presidio Dink must have had health problems or maybe something else. The sheriff came to town
and scooped him up and took him to a nursing home at Balmorhea, I think it was.
Freedom is a precious thing when
a man lives in a private room with a clean bed in a building that is heated and cooled and cooks on hand to keep him fed.
Maybe it was the doctors and preachers that came around once a week; Dink was never too high on those who filled those professions.
Maybe it was something else because Dink escaped. He was out overnight but they caught him walking toward Presidio on highway
17. I don't know how this story ended but I wish I did. Dink was not a likeable person because he was too cranky, but he
was the epitome of a person who knew his own mind and was determined to be his own man.Many of us cannot live up to that standard. OO
I noted with sadness the passing of Herbert Banks in the "Borderline". In 1969, Herbert
and I were working the Sensor Van on the Pumphouse Pole Line in Chula. I was his journeyman, having graduated one
whole class ahead of him. We detected sensor traffic coming up the pole line, so we got out and concealed
ourselves in some brush, growing around the pump house. Soon, we could hear two men singing as they made their way toward
us. Both drunk and sharing a bottle of Tequila. Herbert asked if he could chouse them and I agreed. When
they were about ten yards from us, he placed his flashlight about waist level, with the beam shining upwards on his face and
slowly rose from the bushes. The aliens froze in their tracks. We cuffed them and held them for transportation.
Pretty soon we had an inquiry, over the radio, from the Watch Commander. He wanted to know what in the world we
had done to the aliens. They were scared to death and all they would talk about was "La Fantasma Negra".
When I got my telegram notifying me that I had been accepted
for hire by the Patrol it also, as they always did informed me that my official duty station was to be Sierra Blanca, TX.This was in the summer of 1970.I was
living in El Paso, TX at the time as were my parents.Dad as you will recall
from my previous Recuerdos was also in the Patrol and when he heard that I was going to be stationed in Sierra Blanca he said
that I couldn’t have gotten a better Senior to break in under than George Bounds.George had been the Senior at Sierra Blanca longer than the Pope had been a Catholic.Dad first met George many years before during the Bracero Program when Dad was stationed at Brownville, TX.At that time George was a Detention Officer attached to the McAllen station.Not long after that George entered the Patrol and later transferred to the El Paso Sector.
Now George was from the old school.He ran a tight station but he was the best damn Senior I ever worked for.Five trainees out of my class were sent to Sierra Blanca.That was an
increase of 150% in man power for the Sierra Blanca station and more people than George had ever supervised.I think he was a little over whelmed by it at first.Prior
to our arrival it was just George, Jim Brown, and Millard Meek.Right away George
sat us five trainees down and told us what he expected.None of his expectations
were unreasonable but I will never forget how much time he spent talking to us about proper radio procedure.His pet peeve was someone using fowl language on the radio.It
wasn’t long before some of the journeymen around the sector started asking us if George had given us his speech on proper
radio procedure, so obviously George had a reputation for demanding that PIs keep it clean when using the radio.
Sierra Blanca was, and still is the eastern most station
in the El Paso Sector located some 93 miles east of El Paso right on IH-10.The
Whitman mountain range runs north and south and is just west of Sierra Blanca between Sierra Blanca and El Paso.To make it possible for Sierra Blanca to communicate with the rest of the sector a radio repeater station
had been built on top of one of the highest peaks in the Whitman range.The Sierra
Blanca station was responsible for all of the area from the Rio Grande to the New Mexico state line and within the east/west
county lines of Hudspeth County, an enormous area.So large in fact that frequently
we were not able to communicate car to car within the Sierra Blanca station unless we had our radio set on the repeater.The important thing to remember here is that when your radio was set on the repeater
most of the entire Sector could hear your transmission.
In a station where there were just a handful of PIs such
as Sierra Blanca it was not unusual for there to be as few as two PIs on duty at some times.When that occurred it meant that the two on duty had to pull double duty in checking drag roads for sign.Such was the case one morning when just George and I were working.George and I had met at the station about 5AM and we flipped a coin the see who would take the south drag road down
around Green Gap and who would check the drag roads east of town.I got the east
drag roads.After we stopped at the Wagon Wheel for a quick cup of coffee we
took off for our respective areas.The eastern sky was just turning a reddish
pink with the rising sun and the morning air was still crisp and clean and heavy with the pungent scent of the creosote brush
that my jeep was running over.It was a great morning to be tracking wets.As luck would have it I hadn’t cut more than a mile of the first drag
road when I came across fresh sign of a group of wets.I called George on the
radio using the local channel, not the repeater to let him know I had a trail going.He didn’t answer which didn’t surprise me as Green Gap, where George was, was one of those areas where
you had to use the repeater to communicate.I switched over to the repeater and
called again.This time George answered also on the repeater.I told him I had a trail going.He said he would go ahead
and check Green Gap and if he didn’t get anything going he would head east to give me a hand.I trailed this group about three miles to a windmill and found the group hiding in some thick brush.I got the group loaded up and called George again and told him I had the group rounded
up and that I was heading back to town to drop them off at the county jail and would then head back and finish checking the
east drag road.I got through at the jail and was just leaving the edge of town
when George called on the repeater and said he had picked up a trail and for me to come on down to Green Gap and give him
a hand.Green Gap is about 11 miles south of town and most of it is gravel/dirt
road to this day.So I knew it would take about 15 to 20 minutes to get there.After I had driven about 10 miles George called, still on the repeater and said he
had trailed the group to the steel tank at the top of Green Gap.A few minutes
later I turned off the county road and headed up into Green Gap.Just as a point
of interest, the road I turned onto, just two ruts is the road that was originally made by the Butterfield Stage line.The road has several curves on the way up to the top of the gap and about 200 yards
below the steel tank a fence crosses the road and there was a wire gate there that was always closed.From that gate you could look up the hill and see the steel tank at the top of the gap.The tank was a very large round tank that sat on a flat concrete foundation.The sides of the tank were at least 8 to 10 feet high and it was approximately 30 to 40 feet in diameter.I got out of my jeep and opened
the gate, drove through it and got out and closed the gate.Just as I was getting
back into my jeep George called, still on the repeater and said he was having trouble cutting the tracks away from the steel
tank.He said it appeared that the wets had spent some time there as there were
tracks all over the area around the tank and the ground was still wet where they had climbed up on the tank to get water.He also said that the wets were bare foot.I
had just started pulling away from the gate when I looked up the road just in time to see George’s jeep disappear around
the far side of the tank.Just as his jeep went out of sight here comes three
wets around the tank Tripue bags on their shoulders, gallon Clorox bottles of water in one hand and their shoes in the other
hand, all were sort of crouched over, craning their necks around the tank to keep George’s jeep in sight.It took me a second to decipher what it was that my eyes were seeing.When I realized what was happening I had to stop and give myself time to take this all in.This moment had to be savored. It wasn’t something that should be interrupted without due observation
and consideration of the event.Neither George nor the wets had noticed me down
the road; after all they were all very much involved in trying to keep track of each other.I had to get a closer look at this but I didn’t want the wets or George to notice me.So I reached around and got my binoculars out.By this time
I am laughing so hard I am having trouble focusing the binoculars.It was like
watching an incredible play during the Sunday afternoon Dallas Cowboy game and wanting the TV crew to keep running the replay.Every time George and those wets came around that tank it just got better.Finally I got the binoculars focused and I could see George hanging half way out of the driver’s
doorway intently studying the tracks with that little stub of a cigar he always had in his mouth, running from one corner
of his mouth to the other. The wets are in single file, one behind the other,
each with his hand on the back of the one in front of him following along behind George’s jeep.If I had had a camera I would have owned George forever.
Finally I decided I had better let George in on what was
goin on.Still watching through the binoculars, I reached over and got the radio
mike and waited until George came into view again. I keyed the mike and said,
“George I think I know why you can’t get those tracks away from the tank”.Remember we are still on the repeater.George says, “Why”?I said, “Because, the wets are following you around the tank”.HERE IT COMES FOLKS.George keys the mike and hollers,………..”SONS
A BITCHES”.He jumps out of his jeep without even taking it out of gear
so the jeep makes about three or four hard jerks forward and then dies.I could
hear George hollerin something as he started running back around the tank but I couldn’t make out what it was.It sounded like another string of SONS A BITCHES however.The wets don’t know what has been said they just think George has gone crazy from driving around
in circles for half and hour and they dropped their shoes, Trique bags, and water jugs and take off running up the road in
the opposite direction.By now I can’t take it anymore and I am setting
on the front bumper of my jeep about to pass out for lack of oxygen.About this
time someone, it sounded like Jim Mann, one of the Seniors over in Fort Hancock, a long time friend of George’s came
on the radio and said very slow and in a low sort of astonished voice, “did y’all hear what George Bounds just
said on the service radio”.Jim was well aware of George’s pet peeve
for foul language on the radio.
When George came back around the tank and saw the wets
running down the road he took his stub of a cigar out of his mouth, throw it on the ground, turned around and looked down
the road toward me and yelled, “well are you just gonna set there laughin or are you gonna go get those SOBs”.I went and got the wets.Funny, when
we got back to the tank where George was those wets wanted nothing to do with George.
For the next three or four months every time George had
occasion to use the repeater, as soon as he finished talking PIs from every corner of the sector would jump on the radio and
start with the SONS A BITCHES.It was like an echo.I of course attended George’s retirement party.I just
couldn’t help myself.I just had to get up and tell this story.George took it well though.
George’s son, Lee was in the same academy class
with me.He was stationed in Lordsburg, New Mexico.Lee was killed in the line of duty.George never got over
the death of his son.My Dad was right about George Bounds.George was a good teacher, a fine man, and a damn good Border Patrol Agent.George is gone now, and I miss him!
I was only home a couple of months
in the summer of 1960 when I received orders to go back to Florida for another 30 days.I’m
trying to explain to my wife, “but honey, I have no choice, I have to go as it is part of the job”.“Sure,” she icily says.So off to Spokane
I go merrily along.Somewhere between Oroville and Spokane,
my detail was changed to Columbia, South Carolina.
Some of you had a hard time believing
the statistics in “My First Detail”, wait until you read some of the following.I reported into an assigned Hotel and was met by a young Senior from Blaine, Washington.Over a cup of coffee with just a tab of sweetener, we decided what to do to accomplish
the orders (to cover as many airports as possible, develop contacts, and try to prevent any airplanes leaving to drop pamphlets
or other items on Cuban soil.After studying the map, we determined the northern
route was about 245 miles and the southern route about the same.Both routes
would cover most of the airports within our reach.
The Senior decided he would
take the morning shift and cover the northern section.He would then turn the
1959 Ford Patrol Vehicle over to me and I would drive the other section.This
meant we had the Ford serviced every4 days.Maybe some of you remember those Ford Sedans but they were terrible on tires.We had to buy a new set every 3 weeks.
It was actually a pretty easy detail.There was never any time for personal pleasure but it was nice driving the routes.Some of the roads were straight as an arrow but had dips ever so often.One couldn’t see the dips as the roads were so straight, the center line looked like it continued
on across the dips.One day I was driving along about 90 miles an hour when I
approached a slower moving vehicle driving in the same direction as I was.I
looked around the vehicle and no traffic was coming so I didn’t slow down.I
pulled out to pass the vehicle and an oncoming car came right up out of the pavement and was so close I could not complete
my passing maneuver.I hit my brakes and the wheels locked and the tires started
sliding.I swear instead of slowing down, I seemed to go even faster.The hardest thing I ever did was to release the pressure on the brake pedal and push in down again.I kept pumping the brakes and saw I was going to hit the car in front of me and just
about decided to hit the ditch when the oncoming vehicle passed me so I flipped the Ford onto the other lane and passed the
vehicle.I slowed down for the rest of the day but it took so long to visit the
airports, the next day I was driving 90 MPH again.
I was again extended for 10 days
but this time it was for going to Charleston, South Carolina
and find a suitable office for a Border Patrol Station.Carl Shults, an ex PI
out of Oroville, Washington was selected to be the PAIC there.I don’t remember much about looking for an office.Carl
had rented a house on the ocean shore and we visited him there and finalized the plans.
I was also detailed to Key
West twice but that is another story.
Working 4 to 12 in Niagara
Falls one summer Saturday night in the early 80's Jim Carroll and I received information that a Jamaican steel band was to
be playing that night at a party in Youngstown, New York. Youngstown was home to a fancy yacht club that was hosting the largest
saiboat race in the country that weekend. The party was the yacht club's social event of the season and the steel band
was to be the main entertainment. From a distance we watched the band, dreds and all, pull up and start unloading their instruments
and sound system. We went over for a chat, and the drummer of the group turned out to be wetter'n a sock. Even better than
that, he was found to have an outstanding warrant of deportation!! A "bag and baggage" case, our all time favorite, maximum
job enjoyment, minimum paperwork. (I never understood the term "bag and baggage", isn't that the same thing?) We had the guy
cuffed and in the back seat when the beehived chairwoman of the yacht club party appeared on the scene and started questioning
our parentage and legitimacy. The steel band had decided that they could not perform without their drummer. The poor worman
was working herself into red faced, mascara streaked hysteria as we departed with our prize.
In 1972 I had been transferred to Beecher Falls Vt., (my own request). The Agent there was Wayne Preston, who helped
me as much as he could, he had been there for a year or more at that time. He decided that he wanted to conduct a. ( as he
said) a West Texas Traffic check point just south of the Canadian Border in New Hampshire. After several calls to Chief Lovejoy
in Swanton, Vt. the Chief gave us permission to conduct the Check Point but with the advice to be careful both legally
and safety. It took us sometime to get all the necessary traffic cones and signs gathered up some coming from as far away
as Rouses Point N.Y.
BPA Preston had warned me when I first arrived at Beecher Falls that there would be less
apprehensions up there than on the Southern Border. Well he had never worked with a hot shot Border Patrol Agent like
me. He warnded me that I would have 30 or more days in a row without any apprehensions . You know he was right. After about
a Month, looking under leaves, talking to people, Stopping vehicles by the dozens I was without an apprehension. He just kept
trying to cheer me up and promised that it would get better.
Back to the West Traffic Check Point. Wayne and I Stopped
a lot of Vehicles that day and asked many questions, after about 2 or 3 hours Wayne asked a driver his name, and after the
driver gave his name Wayne got him out of the car and told him " you are under arrest ". I at that point was at a complete
loss, as it turned out Wayne with his memory recalled a memo or lookout for a deported Alien from that area and as it
turned out the Alien as the driver. From that day on I began to observe the more experienced Officer and read every memo and
intell. notice .
I was assigned to ride the fence, and cut
sign out in the sand hills, in New Mexico, I had worked out there a couple of years mostly with Jim Dove and they thought
I knew somet’in, and a new PI was assigned with me. He was small in statue, ruddy complexion, blue eyed, and blond,
as skinny as I was (28”waist). He told me his name was McKinney, I never did know his first name, and if he told me
I don’t member! I believe it was Bill, but at this age, hey, what do you expect!!
As we are riding along the fence, which
was new at the time, (don’t ask me when), cutting sign, when Joe Turner (who was killed by some jealous nut in Las Cruces,
NM) our ELPT pilot, flying in aTayor Cub went by, and McKinney said he was a pilot and flew the same type of aircraft. He
jointed the Patrol to be one of our pilots. I replied “what are doing in this jeep?” He said the Table of Organization
was full, at this paticular time, they didn’t need any more pilots, but he would keep trying. It is very strange, if
someone knows, or friendly with, or donates a quality sum to a senator’s reelection campaign, it is amazing how the
Table falls apart.
Where did you do your flying? McKienny
stated he was from Sanderson, Texas and did almost all of his flying there, hunting Eagles. Hunting Eagles? What do they taste
like. Oh! I don’t shoot them to eat. You shoot Eagles? Yes, I fly all over the Terrell county hunting and shooting Eagles.
Why? Because the ranchers pay me to hunt and kill Eagles. Why?
Because the Eagles kill and eat the newborn
sheep. They raise sheep in Terrell County, I did not know they raised sheep in Texas, because I was station in Hebbronville,
and received a distinct disrespect for any kind of ranching but cattle. Did you know that more cattle were shipped out of
Hebbronville than anywhere in the State of Texas? No!
McKinney stated when he hunted Eagles,
he carried and shot them with a shotgun. Is it easy to shoot them?No it is not,
you have to fly the airplane, get fairly close to shoot, and one does not always succeed, one has the wind factor to content
with, and believe it or not, Eagles can fly 90 (ninety) miles an hour and just when you’r ready to shoot, an Eagle can
make a 90 degree turn, going that fast, and by the time you get the gun, the Eagle is at you tail. And they fly near the cliffs
where the wind rises, and I cannot get close because I’ll hit the canyon wall. They also fly into small crevices in
the canyons.
Hey, these birds are smart. He admitted
that they were, indeed!
McKinney said he only saw, and hunted black
Eagles, but this one time he saw an Eagle with a white head, the first one he had ever seen, and was determined to shoot him.
He stated it was the toughest bird he had ever hunted. This big bird could fly. But, I finally shot him. I landed and picked
up the bird, flew home, and took it to the restaurant, to see if someone could identify this Eagle. Someone, indeed, did identify
the Eagle, a Golden Eagle, and stated that it was illegal to capture, cage, or shoot a white headed Eagle. So he found a large
garbage pail, and threw the bird inside.
Of course, there is always, (very much
in our Service), someone who is going to rat, and they did, and McKinney informed me that the FBI came to Sanderson, spoke
to him, and took him to court, where he was fined. The ranchers paid all costs, so it wasn’t so bad!!!
I never did find out how much the ranchers
paid for each Eagle, but it must have been a healthy price, considering the aircraft, fuel, pilot, weapon, and time.
He did not remain in ELPT for any great
length of time. I wonder where he went, and is!!
DOES ANYONE
KNOW OF HIM, OR WHERE HE MIGHT BE?????
