Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  He went down a short hallway, the candle making long shadows on the walls. The family room was empty, the carpets having been rolled up. Here they had watched television on a black-and-white Philco, and he had a sweet pang of memory, recalling Howdy Doody and Sky King and Tom Corbett, Space Cadet. He remembered Mom ironing clothes here during the televised McCarthy hearings, back in ‘56, and Dad watching the Friday evening boxing matches. At the end of the hallway he paused, letting the candlelight illuminate the empty room. There. His parents’ bedroom. When he or Sarah had been sick and had to stay home from school, Mom would let them stay in this room, convinced that they would recover quicker if she was nearby. Carl’s eyes teared up. He wondered what had gone though his mother’s head those last few days, huddled in bed here with her husband, probably wearing every piece of clothing they owned, with no power and no heat, while snowstorms raged outside and there was no food inside.

  He wiped his eyes and went upstairs. To the left, Sarah’s room, the walls empty. He remembered what had been there. Photos of horses and a couple of folk singers, including a guy named Dylan, who now played in exile in Canada. He remembered late nights with Sarah reading thick books from the library, halting sounds on the guitar, and the smell of tobacco coming from under the door.

  Then he went to his old room. His bed had been there, and a couple of bookshelves and a dresser’ over by the window. He held up the candle and saw tiny holes in the ceiling, holes made by thumbtacks that had once held black thread from which he had dangled carefully made models of aircraft from wars past: Sopwith Camels and Fokker triplanes and B-17 bombers and P-51 fighters and F-86 jets.

  Home again. He had never thought he would return, but tonight, it seemed right, so very right. Rummaging around in the attic, he found an old bedspread. He wrapped himself up in it and lay down on the threadbare carpet in his old bedroom, blinking again as tears started trickling down his cheeks, the recovered papers still by his side.

  Only a couple of days left. He thought about what he had to do tomorrow, to fulfill the promise he had made last week. He tried to think of Jim Rowley and PS 19, the hidden communities across the country, and the British soldiers and the upcoming anschluss, but he couldn’t focus. All he could think about was the small-town family that had lived in this house at the start of a new and hopeful decade, headed by a young pres-ident filled with vigor and promises. He thought of his family, shattered and destroyed by a war that should have never happened, and how, finally, he was now able to do something to make it right. He checked the time. It was just after midnight.

  Just two days left.

  ~ * ~

  He had gotten up early this Saturday and was now back in Boston. After leaving the house in Newburyport and locking the door behind him, Carl had walked to a Greyhound station and caught a bus to Boston, just at morning rush hour, knowing that checkpoints at that hour were few and far between. Back in the city another hour of walking had brought him to Morrissey Boulevard. He was tired but alert, knowing that in the next few minutes or so, he’d be doing something he never thought he’d ever do: sneak into work.

  Joining some of the print workers coming into the facility, he got into the Globe’s building through the loading dock area, where large rolls of newsprint were shoved into the printing plant section of the newspaper. He took a service elevator upstairs and moved quickly, avoiding people and their stares, until he found his refuge, inside George Dooley’s office.

  The small office was still clean and he moved the typewriter over to the desk. It was not yet 8 A.M. He had a couple of hours to get some work done before George showed up. It was a gamble, a gamble with impossibly high stakes, but he knew he had no other choice. This was the only place that made sense. Where else could he have gone? What else could he have done?

  He started reading the papers he had brought down from New Hampshire, and quickly sorted them into two piles. One pile was a collection of special reports and briefing papers on what was going on in Cuba in 1962, and he put that on one side of the desk. The other pile, which was much smaller, was beginning to lead him to the story that he was going to write this morning, and he took his time, reading and rereading.

  There were two or three sheets clipped together, all with the same heading, ‘THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON,’ and the sheets were filled with scribbling:

  ExComm met at 2300 hours 27 Oct. Saturday. President furious re: Curtis decision to go ahead with air strike. AG demands his firing. McNamara reminds of current facts, we are now in a shooting war, killing Cubans and Russian techs. Hard to back away. Sacking Curtis would show sign of weakness. Curtis now airborne in command post.

  AG adamant. Curtis is to go. Disobeyed direct orders. JCS Chief Taylor points out events are moving quickly. Must look to what is to be done now. AF is bombing SA-2 sites and MRBMs can be brought up to launch capability within hours. Must start bombing missile sites now, before nuclear-armed MRBMs and IRBMs are launch-capable.

  SecState Rusk said whole mess has destroyed last diplomatic chance to solve crisis. UN, world opinion now firmly against us. McNamara points out that real events now rule, diplomacy is over. War in Cuba has started.

  President brings discussion to close. Cannot allow missiles to become operational. They must be bombed. JCS Taylor points out that op plans do not rely on bombing of missile sites solely—ground forces must be inserted to ensure full destruction of offensive capability. President agrees. Marines and Airborne to enter Cuba Monday, October 29, at the latest.

  Question to McNamara. What will be response of Soviet Union to invasion? McNamara answer: we must be prepared for a response elsewhere, most likely Berlin.

  Question to McNamara. What about Soviet force response in Cuba? Answer: There may be some Soviet forces in Cuba with light armor and other weapons. Do not expect much of an impact.

  President ends meeting with comment that if we live through this and achieve our goals, that SOB Curtis will get the Medal of Honor. And then I’ll have the bastard shot.

  Carl found it hard to focus on the sheets of paper that were telling him a story that had been kept secret for years and years. It had been secret for a very good reason. It told the truth.

  MEMORANDUM FOR FILE

  * * *

  State Dept, source contacted me today, almost crying in frustration and fear. Said that back channels with Soviet Embassy in DC had arranged a deal to resolve the crisis this past Saturday. Sovs would take missiles out of Cuba, JFK would agree to respect Cuban government and territory, and in a few months, we’d haul out obsolete Jupiter missiles in Turkey.

  State Dept, guy says deal was killed when AF started bombing SA-2 sites after the U-2 shootdown. Back channels closed down, Soviet Embassy burning its papers, and he’s quitting State and taking his family to West Virginia.

  And another single sheet, right after that one, on a plain piece of paper:

  ExComm meeting today chaotic. A third of ExComrn members have left DC with families. Only scattered communications left with Marine/ Airborne units in Cuba. Soviet tactical nukes used with Frog ground-to-ground missiles. Horrific casualties. SAC has begun full retaliatory response. Our forces in West Berlin overrun. President is urged to leave DC immediately with his family. McNamara still thinks armistice can be reached. AG almost engages in fistfight with McNamara. Word comes in that Deputy Director CIA in charge of intelligence gathering re: Soviet forces in Cuba has committed suicide. AG says other CIA SOBs should join him. President says he will try for armistice, will stay in DC to the end to try to stop the war.

  Then, near the end bottom of the papers, was a typewritten document of a more recent vintage:

  The following is the sworn affidavit of Merl Sawson, of Boston, Massachusetts:

  1. My name is Merl Sawson. At the time of the Cuban War, I was a colonel in the U.S. Army, assigned to the White House for certain liaison duties. As part of my duties, I attended meetings of Cabinet members, military officials and other government representatives in r
esponse to the Cuban missile crisis. This group was called the Executive Committee, or ExComm.

  2. On Saturday, 27 October 1962, an Air Force U-2 surveillance aircraft was shot down over Cuba. I was directed by the President to contact Air Force Chief of Staff General Ramsey Curtis, to ensure that the planned retaliation against the SA-2 site that destroyed the U-2 would not take place. This retaliation had already been planned for under Joint Chiefs of Staff Operational Plan No. 312.

  3. General Ramsey Curtis disobeyed the direct orders of the President and allowed the retaliatory mission against the missile sites to occur. General Curtis, upon his own initiative and without any orders from the President or any other National Command Authority, authorized follow-up bombing raids upon other Cuban targets.

  4. It was the opinion of the President and the members of the ExComm that bombing raids upon the MRBM and IRBM missile sites and the subsequent invasion of Cuba were inevitable following the decision by General Curtis to allow the retaliatory mission to take place.

  5. To the best of my knowledge, I was one of the last individuals to leave the White House on the day of the attack on Washington. Although he had ample opportunity to leave the White House for safety, President John F. Kennedy remained there, convinced he could reach a cease-fire with surviving Soviet authorities.

  6. Since the conclusion of the Cuban War, I have spent several years attempting to locate surviving members of the ExComm and their associates who may have direct knowledge of General Curtis’ actions just prior to the onset of hostilities in Cuba.

  My research has shown that since the war, those ExComm members and associates who were not in Washington, D.C., at the time of its bombing, are either dead, in prison, or missing.

  7. Several of the deaths of the surviving ExComm members, in my opinion, are suspicious in nature.

  8. Since the conclusion of the Cuban War, I have technically been a deserter, since I did not contact any military authority to report for duty. I once regretted not having done this. Having seen what has happened to members of the ExComm, I regret this no longer.

  This affidavit was sworn before me in Boston, Massachusetts, on May 30, 1971.

  Carl looked at the two signatures on the affidavit. One was Merl Sawson’s. The other belonged to a notary public, and his name was Andrew Townes, Merl’s neighbor and landlord.

  ‘Oh, you poor bastards,’ Carl said. ‘When you signed this, you were signing your own death warrants.’

  His head was pounding, he was hungry, and his feet throbbed with pain from all the walking he had done, but he knew he didn’t have much time. He rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and after typing in his name and slug ‘CUBA STORY,’ the door opened up and George Dooley came in, carrying a cup of coffee and a small brown paper bag.

  ‘Carl, what the hell are you doing here?’ he asked, his eyes blinking in surprise behind his black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I’m writing a story for Sunday’s newspaper,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ George said, sipping at his coffee. ‘That’s what we pay you for. But in here?’

  ‘Privacy,’ Carl said, typing out the lead, which practically wrote itself. ‘And you’ll see why in just a moment.’

  Carl typed up a half sheet of paper and passed it over to George, and he sat there, his heart pounding so hard he thought the pressroom boys next door might hear it. This was it. This was the moment to see if his gamble would pay off, for if George said anything disparaging or cautionary or remotely challenging, anything at all, he was going to grab the papers and get the hell out of Dodge, and make his way to the British consulate.

  George read the sheet, grunted, and passed it over. ‘Okay, privacy it is. Coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, and something to eat, too.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ~ * ~

  A copy boy brought him coffee and a handful of doughnuts, and he kept on writing. George ambled back in after a while and started reading the typewritten sheets, and out of the corner of his eye, Carl could see him making some minor edits. George asked to see the source materials and he passed them over, and George read and grunted and raised an eyebrow, and then handed them back. That was about as excited as George could get over a story. George said, ‘Need anything else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Bound back issues of the Globe. And the Times. From October 1962. I want to get the history down right.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ George said. ‘Anything else?’

  Carl yawned and stretched in the chair. ‘Lunch, I’d guess. And this great privacy.’

  George leaned forward, his eyes direct. ‘You’ve got lunch, and you’ve got your privacy, but not for long. I can’t do anything with this story just on my say-so, and you know it, Carl. I need to bring in other editors and probably the goddam newspaper owners as well.’

  Something cold crawled up his throat. Still only two days left. ‘Including Major Devane?’

  George snorted in contempt. ‘That man’s a lot of things, but he sure as hell ain’t no editor. Look, you got enough time to make deadline this afternoon?’

  ‘I do. I have to.’

  ‘Then keep on working.’

  ~ * ~

  The bound copies of the old newspapers came in, and he delved back in history, matching the names and faces mentioned in the documents with the stories from ten years ago. The dead Kennedy Administration. John F. Kennedy and his family. Bobby Kennedy and his family. Vice President Johnson. Secretary of Defense McNamara. Secretary of State Rusk. Spokesman Pierre Salinger. All of them were dead now, yet magically still alive in the scribbled notes and faded memorandums and crisply written reports.

  Across from George’s office was a small conference room, and Carl looked up to see several of the editors assembling in there. There were some shouts and raised voices, and once, a slammed door. He recognized the managing editor, the executive editor, the editorial page editor, and even the publisher himself, head of the family that had owned the Globe for years. George was in the middle of it all, cajoling and talking and waving his hands. Eventually, lunch came, and he ate half the sandwich before realizing it was roast beef and cheese, and remembering Manhattan, he tossed it in the trash can, just above crumpled sheets of his copy.

  George came back into his office, the group of editors in tow, and Carl looked at their faces. They were men who had been at the Globe for years and had built their careers here, as best as they could with the censorship, and now they were looking at him in an odd way. Carl knew what they were thinking. Who in hell was this character before them, and what kind of story was he spinning that could destroy the newspaper and give them all prison terms?

  The executive editor said, ‘I’d like to look at your source documents, please.’

  Carl wordlessly passed them over, and the executive editor started reading them with the other senior editors grouped around him, like a young man with his friends, reading a letter from a suitor. One of the editors whispered, ‘Jesus Christ’ and another said, ‘I knew it, I always knew it,’ and the executive editor held up his hand. ‘Quiet, please. We don’t have much time.’

  Papers were passed from hand to hand. George passed around the first four or five pages of Carl’s story, and that was also read, and one editor looked up and said, ‘Good job, Carl.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling comfortable for the first time that day.

  The executive editor took a chair, stretched out his long legs, looked around the small office at the other editors, and smiled and said, ‘Do you realize what we have here?’

  ‘Yeah, a goddam Pulitzer Prize-winning story, if the judges have any balls,’ one editor said. Another laughed and said, ‘No, I think what we got here is five years in a decon camp.’

  The executive editor held up Carl’s story. ‘Close. No, what we have here is the Globe with a story that says General Ramsey Curtis, the most powerful and respected man in this country, started the Cuban War. That up to the last minute, the war could have been avoide
d. That General Curtis was ultimately responsible for a war that destroyed the Soviet Union and its people, killed several million of our countrymen, and tossed this world upside down.’

  A voice from the back said, ‘Hardly, John. The man had some help.’

  The executive editor shook his head. ‘No, there’s more here. We’re destroying two myths, don’t you see? The myth of a noble Air Force general, saving this nation from further destruction during our most horrible days, and the myth of a weak and cowardly president, throwing this land into nuclear war because his ego was hurt when the Bay of Pigs invasion went sour. Believe me, gentlemen, people don’t like losing their myths. With Rockefeller so closely tied to Curtis...well, the election next week just got more interesting.’

  The editorial page editor said, ‘I’m nervous about the provenance of those documents, John. Might be a setup. Either foreign intelligence or black ops. Something to hurt us.’