When the Dead Speak

Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Frank found it hard to believe the spry man leading him out to the enclosed breezeway was seventy-five-years old. Amos Washington walked tall, proud. The only hints of his age were the leathery skin and bent joints in his fingers from arthritis.

Amos lived in a brick bi-level on a tree-lined street in South Holland. The four-bedroom home had to have cost at least one- hundred-and-sixty-thousand dollars, Frank guessed. Four people lived here. Zeke and Alicia Washington were at their jobs at the post office. Latoya, Amos' fifteen-year-old granddaughter, was spending her summer vacation doing odd jobs around the house and catering to her grandfather. She was a pretty girl, with a devilish twinkle in her eye and a Janet Jackson smile.

"Anyone ever tell you that you look like Denzel Washington?" she asked Frank as she set down the tray of soft drinks and cookies. Her staring was making Frank uncomfortable.

"No, not recently," Frank stammered. "I hear more Eddie Murphy and Wesley Snipes. Although I wouldn't mind having any of their paychecks."

"Well, you can bust me any day."

"Latoya," Amos cautioned. "Didn't your mother have a little talk with you about this very subject?"

Latoya straightened, suddenly appearing as innocent as a Sunday school choir girl. "Sorry. Guess I'll get back to cleaning my room."

Once she left Amos said, "Hope you don't have any girls."

"No, just one boy."

"Good. These girls are a handful after the age of twelve."

The breezeway overlooked a tidy backyard, two-car detached garage, and a vegetable garden. The lush, green lawn was edged and manicured to perfection.

Frank studied the tattoo on Amos' forearm. It was faint under the dark skin, but he could make out the shape of a hula dancer.

"Yep, I've seen a lot in my day, officer." Amos ran a hand over his thinning gray Afro. His dark eyes resembled oil drops in a bowl of milk.

"Frank, please," Frank requested.

"Yep, Frank. If it's war you want to talk about, it's war you're gonna get."

"Korea is what I'm interested in." Frank took a sip of his soda as he watched a light rain dot the sidewalk leading to the back fence. He pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket.

"Terrible war. We had no damn business being there any more than Viet Nam. Those damn gooks fought a mean fight on the ground. We were not prepared. Hell, our troops were physically unfit." Amos offered Frank a cigarette. Frank declined.

"I thought our military always had state-of-the-art equipment and training."

Amos laughed. "Are you kidding? You ain't never been in the military, I take it."

"Sure. I served four years in the Army."

"Ever see action?" Amos glared. "Unless you been in the trenches, you don't know shit." After a few seconds of silence, Amos added, "Even that Desert Storm fiasco was a laugh. They sent our boys with gas masks that were fifty damn years old." Amos scoffed. "All this military spending going on and we spend it on billion dollar planes to make our defense look good. Meanwhile, our boys still carry the same M-16 rifles that were used in Nam."

"How many years were you in the service?"

"Thirty years. I got out at fifty. Went to work for the post office. Got my boy, Zeke, a job there."

"What did you make it to? Colonel?"

Amos laughed again. "Lieutenant. Ain't no nigra offisahs in the military. That's what our commander always said."

"But we've come a long way. Look at Colin Powell."

Amos smashed his cigarette in the ashtray and reached for a chocolate chip cookie. "Look at the swastikas still being painted on the doors at the barracks. It's been in the news." Amos passed the plate of cookies to Frank who took a couple. "They can write all the laws they want, Frank. But what happens out there in the trenches, the White House either refuses to see or covers up."

The rain started coming down heavier, pounding the roof of the breezeway. The skies were dark but there wasn't any lightning or thunder. It was just a hard pounding summer rain, enough to knock the aphids off the rosebushes and drench the thirsty vegetable gardens and lawns. Amos walked over to close the windows where the rain was being carried in by a gentle breeze. He returned to the cushioned rattan love seat.

"What about that 1948 executive order?" Frank asked.

"Wheweeey. Yessir, boss." Amos gave a mock salute. "Congress said that segregation was banned. So, poof." Amos motioned with his hands like a magician. "Segregation be gone."

"Nothing changed?"

"Hmmmrf," Amos snorted. "We had all black engineering units in WWII and Korea. We were construction battalions. We went ahead to build the bridges, sweep the mine fields. We weren't allowed to fight in WWII. We did the menial tasks. They didn't even train us for combat. Our own damn Army loaned us to the French. And the bigoted press did their bit to fuel the prejudice. We niggers were subservient, they said. Always drunk, disorderly, disrespectful. We always went AWOL. And why bother promoting us. We always conducted ourselves unbecoming an officer. Bullshit. All goddam bullshit." Amos jabbed his finger at his chest. "I was there."

Frank studied the anger on Amos' face. He had seen it other times on the faces of police officers, black and white, who had been passed over for promotion.

Frank set his glass down saying, "With all due respect, Amos, I thought there was an old military slogan that said, There are no bigots in foxholes."

"Maybe now things are a little better. Maybe now there aren't segregated units. But back then? You didn't know if your enemy was in front of you or in your foxhole."

"Grandpa?" Latoya appeared in the doorway. "Can I go to the mall with Amy?"

Amos checked his watch. "What time are you going to be back?" He studied her bare midriff and short shorts.

"Two-ish. I left your lunch in the refrigerator. Tuna salad."

Amos leaned toward Frank. "Her momma says I should cut down on my fat. But when Latoya wants something, she makes my favorite sandwich, high in fat."

"All right. But you either cover your stomach or wear longer shorts. You ain't goin' out there with all that skin showing."

She sighed, walked over and gave him a kiss. "Okay, Gramps."

After Latoya left, Frank asked, "What did you mean?"

"About the foxhole? You had to watch your back, boy. If whitey didn't like you, whitey shot you. If some young eighteen-year-old who had never been out of his town before sees his best friend scattered over a twenty-foot area and runs scared, they shoot him in the back."

"You are kidding, right?"

"No sirree. I ain't never told this to anyone since the war. Not even my son. But I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Why not tell someone?"

"Who? My commanding officer who looked the other way? The White House who would just as soon cover it up and keep its lily white hands clean?"

"What about black leaders? What about Martin Luther King?"

Amos lit another cigarette. "You saw what they did to him. You think he woulda' stirred up a hornet's nest with an allegation of murder in the military? It's been so many years now, who'd believe us?"

Frank closed his notepad and put it back in his pocket. He eyed the proud man in front of him. Amos was still sharp, seemed of sound mind. "Amos, do you really believe there was a cover-up?"

Amos took a long drag from his cigarette and let the smoke trail out slowly from his nostrils. "I'd stake my life on it."