WWII - 1942 - Coastal South Carolina Twenty year old Bruce Weber is arrested, accused of running bootleg whiskey in his souped up hot rod. He is given the option of going to jail or enlisting in the V-5 US Naval Aviation Cadet Program (that does not all

NavCad

By David G. Weaver

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 David G. Weaver
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-7358-9

Chapter One

"You again!" Judge Wade Hampton Bleese bellowed from his seat on the high bench. He propped his beefy hands on the desktop and leaned forward to stare angrily down at the youthful prisoner. Then, without shifting his eyes to Charleston County Policeman Eugene Salmon, standing behind the accused young man, he asked, "What is it this time, Officer?"

Bruce Weber stood mute. His pale blue eyes returned the magistrate's bellicose stare without blinking. He'd been there before and all they ever did was warn him that, one of these days, he might get a prison sentence. Might, Bruce thought, that's the operative word. That's what the old, addled-brained judge always said. "Might!" Hah! I'm not old enough to be sent to the state prison up in Columbia yet, so why worry?

"Same ol' thang, Yoah Honah," Salmon drawled, frowning and shaking his head slowly from side to side as he extracted a small notebook from his right shirt pocket. "Got behine 'im on Route 52 at Ten Mile Hill. Got his tag numbah but couldn't no way ketch up with that souped up hotrod of his'n." Salmon glanced down at his notebook, then continued, "Speedin', reckless drivin', maybe haulin' bootleg whiskey, Judge." He spoke without raising his face, flipping through the booklet rapidly as if searching for some particular entry.

"What do you mean, `Maybe hauling whiskey'? Don't you know if he was or wasn't?" Judge Bleese roared, his voice rising in exasperation.

"Ah couldn't ketch up with 'im, Yoah Honah." Salmon explained weakly. "He has that danged Ford so souped up, ain't nobody kin ketch 'im. Ah was jus' lucky ta git 'is tag befoah he hit them dirt roads behine da ayah port. Aftah dat, it was Katie bah da doah. He was long gone."

"Ummm huh!" Wade Bleese mused as he pursed his lips in deep thought. He shifted his gaze back and forth between the policeman and the culprit. Then, he concentrated on Bruce, peering over his wire rimmed glasses for a long, thoughtful moment. Cocking his head to one side, he asked, "What do you have to say about those charges, young man?" He paused for a second then, in a lighter, softer tone, said, "You know, boy, you're not a bad looking lad. You might have a pretty bright future if you'd just settle down. The way you're going, though, you're going to kill yourself or commit mayhem before you're a grown man." He rested his bulky frame on his elbows, concern evident on his puffy face.

For the very first time, Bruce examined the judge's features closely. He saw care in the judge's amber eyes and noted that the old man's silver-gray hair was combed straight back. Bruce thought the judge looked a lot like the statue of John C. Calhoun atop the tall column on Marion Square.

"Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself this time?" Bleese thundered.

"Nuthin'," Bruce muttered, lowering his eyes again and letting his shoulders slump.

"Speak up, boy!" Bleese shouted. "What did you say?"

Bruce glared at the magistrate for a long, defiant moment then, turning partially toward the door, yelled, "Nuthin'!"

Officer Salmon grabbed the prisoner's arm and jerked him around to face the bench. "Watch yoah lip, boy!" he grated. "Sho' sum ra-spec' ah yore gonna wish you had."

"Sorry, Judge," Bruce said a bit more civilly. "I didn't mean anything. Just seems old Fishface Salmon, here, is always out there just looking for me. All I was doing was hurrying home for a date."

"Date, huh?" Gene Salmon spat out. "More'n likely a date with sum bootleggah, Ah bet."

"Now, Officer," Bleese cautioned, "you're just guessing about that. You have no proof your prisoner was actually hauling stumphole. But one thing is certain, this young pup is a danger on our highways. We have to do something about his speeding. How many times have you brought him in now, Gene? Five? Six?"

"Eight, Yoah Honah," Salmon said. "Seems lak Ah have ta eat 'is dus' jus' 'bout every month ah so." He glared at the prisoner and scowled.

"Eight? You're sure about that, Officer? When was the first time?" Bleese peered down at the policeman.

Salmon quickly flipped the pages of his notebook then looked up at the judge. "Firs' tahm was las' yeah on June tweney secun, Judge. Then again in Septembah, in Novembah an' Decembah. This here yeah it's bin January, March, April an' then today, Suh."

Wade Bleese turned a penetrating stare to Bruce's face, his tiger-yellow eyes seeming to bore into flesh and bone. "How old are you, boy?" he demanded.

"Be twenty-one next March," Bruce answered, his voice sullen and hoarse.

"Suh! Say, `suh' when yew speak ta da judge, boy!" Gene Salmon ordered, ramming a stiff thumb into the youngster's ribs.

"Sir," Bruce gritted, his teeth tightly clenched.

"Twenty-one next spring, eh?" Bleese mused as he pondered the situation for a few seconds. "Uh, huh. That means you'll probably be drafted right away then. Well, that might get you off the roads for a while."

Shrugging, Bruce inhaled a deep breath and turned his head so he could look out the open window. Get it over with, you old coot, go ahead. Lay it on me and get it over with.

"No," Judge Bleese was saying. "No. That won't do. Even in the Army you'll still be able to drive. I'll have to figure out some other way." He twisted his head toward Salmon and scowled. "Lock this young perpetrator up, Officer Salmon, and bring him back at 10 o'clock tomorrow. I'll have made my decision by then."

"Yes, Suh," the policeman said, jotting a note on his pocket pad: "Weber in court 10 AM, July 20, 1942." Then, taking Bruce by one arm, he shoved him out through the open door into the hot, humid afternoon air.

* * *

County Policeman Salmon ushered his prisoner into the courtroom at precisely 10 AM. The place was quiet except for the chirping of birds in the azalea bushes outside the open windows. Heated by the morning sun beating against its clapboard walls, the courtroom was already sultry.

"You look ha'fway decent this mawnin'" Salmon said in a gruff voice. "Dat might he'p you sum, butchew bettah watch dat surly lip of yore'n. Dat damn tongue of yore'n'll git you inta a peck uv trouble fas' as dat hotrod yew're so proud uv. An' it'll git you inta jus' 'bout as much trouble too."

Bruce simply glared at the county policeman without speaking. He was well aware that he was presentable. He certainly didn't need any damned hick cop to tell him. He'd spent long minutes before the jailhouse mirror combing his wavy brown hair, trying to make a stray cowlick stay down. The light khaki shirt set off his suntanned face and eyes that sparkled like aquamarine jewels. Women considered him handsome, but Bruce doubted that would be of any avail when he faced grouchy old Wade Hampton Bleese. Good looks might go over big with the gals, but they wouldn't keep him out of a juvenile correctional institution.

Gene Salmon shoved Bruce toward the front of the room where the empty high bench waited. "Git on up dere," he ordered, "don' wanna keep da judge waitin', do ya?"

In front of the judicial bench, Bruce stood rigidly erect, trying to make his five-feet-eleven-inch frame appear a bit taller. He sniffed the sweet aroma of honeysuckle blooming outside. He listened impatiently to the trilling of a mocking bird somewhere in the moss draped live oaks that shaded the east wall of the building and held back a smidgeon of the oppressive low-country heat of that July morning. "Where the hell is he," he groused, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he looked...