Red, White and Black

The summer of 1965 Peter pulled the red Datsun pickup off the gravel road and parked in a patch of low weeds at the edge of the tree line. He was a tightly wound bundle of frayed nerves. As he sat in the darkness mustering his courage, a set of headlights flashed in his rear view mirror. He ducked down quickly, lying across the bench seat of the compact truck. If questioned, he had no plausible reason for his whereabouts. The passing car slowed as it came alongside the pickup. Peter held his breath and struggled to control his anxiety. The panic stung for several minutes after the car moved on. Cautiously sitting up, he rubbed his side where the gear shift had stabbed him. He scanned the area for imagined assailants. He uttered a racial slur and profanity. He knew blacks occupied the passing car because no good white person, not even white trash, would live in this part of rural Shelby County on the outskirts of Memphis. After fumbling in the glove compartment he pulled out a package of C-4 explosives and placed it on the seat beside him. He took his Zippo lighter from his pocket to make sure it was operational. When he clicked the shiny chrome device open, a whiff of lighter fluid filled the cab. He used his thumb to turn the course steel wheel against the flint, and instantly a flame appeared. He quickly extinguished the fire with a whispered curse, realizing its light could be plainly seen in the stark darkness of the rustic landscape. From his other pocket he withdrew a .38 caliber over/under derringer. He opened the firearm to reconfirm it was loaded. Opening the door, he bemoaned his stupidity when the dome light in the pickup came on. Leaving the safety of his truck he locked the door and crept into the tree line. He felt like an elephant lumbering through the lightless woods. He could barely see and was stumbling into holes, tripping over undergrowth and entangling himself in vines hanging from the trees. His energy rapidly diminished and his misery grew with each step. Insects swarmed around his sweat-soaked body as thorns and thistles pulled on his clothing. When he finally reached the clearing, he swore once more because the white framed church was still more than a hundred yards away. Although he was covered in black clothing, he was afraid to expose himself by crossing the clearing toward the church, so he continued to fight through the thicket at the edge of the tree line. When he reached the rear of the church, exhausted from his harrowing tromp through the woods, he leaned against the building. After taking a quick breather, he stuck the white clay-like substance to the wooden siding of the structure. Then, taking the lighter from his pocket he ignited the C-4. In a flash, the clay substance burst into a brilliant hot blaze that illuminated the outside wall of the church. When he was convinced the building would burn to the ground, he dropped a piece of self-composed Klan literature so it would be easily discovered during an investigation. He was confident the white supremacists would gladly take responsibility for his act of terrorism. Turning to leave, he heard voices rapidly approaching. Alarmed, he darted into the woods. Footsteps thundered behind him. As he ran through the forest, low hanging branches slashed his face. Undergrowth and saplings wrapped around his legs. He tripped and fell several times, but he bounced up and continued scrambling through the woods. His pursuer apparently fared no better in the darkness and didn’t seem to be gaining ground. Arriving at the road where he left his truck, he found himself approximately fifty yards from his vehicle. He sprinted towards the pickup in a shallow rain ditch that paralleled the gravel road. With the sound of footsteps now gaining on him, he tripped on a fallen tree branch lying hidden in the darkness. Clambering to get up, he was hit from behind with a ferocious jolt and a great weight drove him back to the ground, squeezing the breath out of him like a collapsing accordion. Stunned and breathless, Peter was pinned to the ground by a man sitting on top of him. Giant hands gripped tightly around Peter’s throat, choking the life out of him. Peter and the black man were on the ditches incline. Instinctively, Peter used the downward slope to unseat his assailant. While Peter battled to his feet, the black man grabbed Peter’s leg with such force he nearly pulled his pants down, making it impossible for Peter to escape. Holding on to the waistband of his trousers, Peter kicked and scrambled, but he couldn’t free himself from the man’s grip. While both men strained for breath, Peter reached into his pocket and withdrew his derringer. “Let go or I’ll shoot” Peter cried. He aimed the shaking derringer at the man clutching his leg. Unconcerned by the threat, the man pulled harder on Peter’s pant leg. When Peter began to teeter, the black man grabbed at the derringer. Peter pulled the trigger. The blast from the gun rang in Peter’s ears, and the man’s grip released. Peter bolted for the truck. He cursed himself again for locking the truck’s door as he groped through his pockets to find his keys. Jerking the keys from his pants, they slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground. With the derringer still in his right hand, he dropped to his knees and searched blindly in the darkness with his left hand. He sighed loudly with relief when he found them among the weeds. He braced himself against the side of the truck and rose to his feet. He unlocked the door and started to climb into the truck when he was startled by a noise behind him. It was the black man again on his feet, ready to pounce.