by Tom McNab
The public reaction to Brundage’s statement was swift, comprehensive and in some cases unprintable. Letters supporting Flanagan and his Trans-Americans poured into newspapers and radio stations throughout the land. There was no doubt where the nation’s sympathies lay.
The race had also come to the notice of the country’s religious leaders, and the evangelist, Alice Craig McAllister, had composed a stirring radio sermon on the “Athletes of the Bible”. Samson, not surprisingly, was “the world’s strongest man”, while Jacob had become “the greatest wrestler” and Enoch “the long-distance runner”. Miss McAllister then moved on to baseball to describe David as “the pinch hitter”, and Saul, more critically, as “the man who fumbled the ball”. At the top of Miss McAllister’s list came Jesus as “the World Champion”, no event specified.
In Europe, every nation with runners in the race now followed the Trans-America avidly. Even the London Times covered the race, although its society columns made occasional slighting reference to Lord Peter Thurleigh’s athletic aberrations on the American continent. In Scotland, Hugh had become a national hero, just as had little Juan Martinez in Mexico, and Hugh’s friend Stevie McFarlane was belatedly despatched to cover the race for the Glasgow Citizen. In Germany, Dr Goebbels, though now under indictment for both libel and slander against the government, made certain that the daily victories of Muller and Stock were well publicized in the party paper Der Angriff, while regular bribes to sports correspondents ensured that the rest of the national press covered the victories of Hitler’s youth squad in full. After Las Vegas, Goebbels also featured a cartoon of Flanagan as “a Communist lackey”, grovelling to a heavily moustached Joseph Stalin.
Yet if Flanagan, Willard and the Trans-America Bank had good reason to be pleased with the gentlemen of the world’s press, elsewhere things were not going nearly as well.
In New York the investigations into Mayor Jimmy Walker’s conduct in office had lifted a few stones, and some exotic insects had been uncovered. Rollin C. Battrass, chief inspector of the Manhattan Building Bureau, had been arrested and taken to the Tombs Prison on a charge of accepting bribes, and everywhere Walker’s men were running for shelter. Similarly, in Chicago, Mayor “Big Bill” Thompson, Flanagan’s one-time friend, had just been ejected from office by a massive 191,916 majority and was now on holiday somewhere on the Mississippi; so no longer of use to Flanagan. Now in mid-April Chicago and New York were still three weeks or more away; Flanagan had more immediate problems. De Luxe Catering, the company he had employed to deal with his feeding arrangements, were asking for more money in advance, and had told him curtly that if he could not come up with fifty thousand dollars by Denver the Trans-America would simply stop short in its tracks.
Whatever way Flanagan looked at it, with close on a thousand miles gone things were beginning to look pretty dark. Nevertheless, as usual Will Rogers, America’s favourite comedian, had some words of hope; “The great thing C. C. Flanagan’s runners demonstrate is that a fellow can still get on to the front page without murdering anyone.”
Charles Finley read in a firm clear voice, sitting stiffly and uncomfortably in a high, leather-backed chair in front of the vast, neat desk in the director’s office.
“‘10 April 1931. Initial Report by agent Ernest Bullard.’ ” He cleared his throat.
“‘My surveillance of the Trans-America race has lasted two weeks, during which time the runners have travelled from Las Vegas, Utah to Grand Junction, Colorado. The Las Vegas stage resulted in an affray at the finish, involving the three race leaders, Cole (USA), Michael Morgan (USA), and Hugh McPhail (Great Britain), and striking IWW workers from the Boulder Dam project. On the discovery that the leaders were wearing IWW vests the affray was brought to a summary halt by IWW leader Eamon Flaherty.’”
“A known Communist,” interjected Edgar Hoover in a low flat voice.
“Indeed, sir,” said Finley. He went on. “‘There were no further untoward incidents. Rather, the remainder of the race was cheered loudly by both IWW workers and public alike. I noted that, despite clear evidence of assault, no arrests were made, though there were Las Vegas police close at hand.’”
“That figures,” said Hoover, doodling on a pad on his desk.
“‘After the race I made myself known to Charles C. Flanagan, the race organizer. I asked him why he had provided his leading runners with IWW vests. He replied that he had received wind of trouble ahead in Las Vegas and took out insurance (as he called it) by having his runners wear the vests. It is my belief that Flanagan, rather than trying to identify himself politically with striking IWW workers, was trying to avoid trouble. Later, however, at a party at IWW headquarters at Camp Stand, several of the athletes made what can only be called radical or left-wing statements.’”
“Any details?” asked Hoover.
Finley scanned Bullard’s report.
“No, sir,” he said.
Hoover grunted and beckoned Finley to continue.
“‘Since then, under the guise of a newspaper reporter, I have moved freely amongst the competitors. These men have come from thirty-one different nations, and many are ex-Olympic athletes. Most are unemployed or have come from low-paid jobs in depressed areas. The Trans-America represents for them an opportunity to achieve a new life – if they can win one of the major prizes. As yet I can find no evidence of organized left-wing political groups amongst the competitors.’”
Finley laid down the first sheet. “Sir, this is the end of the first section relating to political factors. The second part concerns agent Bullard’s mission on the Clairville killing.”
“Stow it,” said Hoover. “That’s not why Bullard’s out there.” He stood up, and turned to look at a massive oilcloth map of the United States hanging on the wall behind his desk.
“Where are they now, Finley?” he said, scanning the map.
Finley joined him behind the desk. “About here – around Gypsum, in the Rockies,” he said. “They get out of the Rockies next week, so they’ll soon be on the edge of the Great Plains.”
“Tough country. But it’s a long way to go yet,” said Hoover. “It’s early days for Bullard, too. Remember, Finley, this information about radicals came straight from the Oval office itself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Finley, dutifully. “Right from the top.”
“Bullard,” Hoover mused. “What manner of man is he?”
“One of our best agents, Director. You know he worked with the New York Prohibition Squad from 1920 to 1924 under Captain Dan Chapin.”
“That goddam Dan Chapin,” chuckled Hoover. “What a ramrod! You know, one day he got all his agents in his office. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘all hands on the table. Now every one of you sonafabitches with diamond rings is fired.’ That day he canned half his staff.”
Finley permitted himself a thin smile. “Captain Chapin gave Bullard an excellent reference, Director.”
“No diamond rings, eh?” growled Hoover. “Is Bullard a family man?”
Finley did not look at his files.
“Two children, aged eight and ten, sir.”
“No horsing around?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Politics?”
“Republican.”
“Church?”
“A Presbyterian, sir. Regular churchgoer, when bureau duties permit. What the Presbyterians call an elder of the church.”
“Height and weight?”
“Five foot ten, one hundred and sixty-eight pounds,” said Finley. “Used to play quarterback for UCLA, ran first in the NCAAA half-mile in 1914. Bullard still keeps himself in pretty good shape.”
“Good,” said Hoover. “I like a man to keep himself in good physical condition. One final point . . .”
“Yes?” Finley looked up.
“You checked on Bullard’s shaving?”
Finley covered his confusion well, then regained his composure.
“Of course, sir . . .” he said.
“I mean twice a day, eight and five? Open razor?”
“I’ll check on it again, sir, to make completely certain.”
“Do that,” said Hoover. “Bullard sounds a good man, but details like that tell me more than you might imagine. That’s been my experience, anyway.”
Hoover returned to his chair and bit on his pencil. “This fellow Flanagan,” he said. “Do we have anything on him?”
Finley picked up a thin file and opened it. “Charles C. Flanagan, born New York 22 April 1884. Left school in fourth grade. 1901-08, working part-time in Mott Street YMCA with track and field and basketball teams. 1908 – 12 sold insurance. 1914-19, journalist with Chicago Tribune, 1919-21, manager of women’s basketball team.”
“You said women’s basketball?” said Hoover, stroking his chin.
“Yes, sir,” said Finley. He looked up again before continuing: “1923, made abortive attempt to introduce indoor horse-racing to New York. 1924, attempted to organize major indoor international track and field meets at Madison Square Garden. Vetoed by AAU. 1925 -28, managed international tennis player Suzanne Lamarr.”
“Nothing much there,” said Hoover.
“Except perhaps the women’s basketball team,” said Finley.
“Yes,” said Hoover, making a triangle with his hands over his lips. “What about the Trans-America athletes?”
“Not much,” said Finley, picking up and opening another slim file. “Some of the American boys are ex-college athletes – no political affiliations. Lots of farmers, again no clear political links. The most likely politicals are the industrial workers – the race has quite a few of them – but it would take us months to check them all out. As for the non-Americans, it’s impossible for us to check back.”
“So we’ve got to wait for some overt political activity?’
“It seems so, sir,” said Finley. “The papers report that, since Las Vegas, every tramp in the areas through which they’ve passed has somehow got to the route to shout them on. They went through the Mojave alone, but they won’t be alone now for a single yard all the way into New York.”
Hoover jerked up his cropped, bullet head.
“So it’s your opinion that they do represent a radical threat?”
“I didn’t say that, sir,” said Finley patiently. “They have – probably unwittingly – become a focal point for people who are out of work, perhaps even for radicals and left-wing elements. There’s no lack of them these days, sir, and the race has become . . . well, a sort of symbol, a rallying-point, for many such malcontents.” ‘
“And what have Reuther and Lewis and those other Union sonafabitches said?”
Finley picked up a wad of newspapers and laid them on Hoover’s desk.
“They’re all solidly behind the runners, sir, but then again so is Carl Liebnitz of the New York Times, so is Alice Craig McAllister, so is Cardinal O’Rourke.”
“Reuther, Lewis, Liebnitz, McAllister, O’Rourke,” rasped Hoover. “What a helluva mixture.”
“And don’t forget Will Rogers, Director,” added Finley. “He has expressed his support on several occasions.”
Hoover permitted a smile to flicker across his featureless face. “Ol’ Will Rogers,” he said. “Well, don’t that just beat the band.”
As Doc had predicted, the weather cooled as they moved on to the fringe of the Rockies, though it was to be another hundred and fifty miles beyond St George before Hugh had fully recovered the quality of his earlier running. He and Doc were now a team, and Doc, still up with the Germans since Las Vegas, stayed back in the earlier parts of each stage and talked Hugh through the days succeeding his collapse, before threading through the field to catch up with the leaders. Through Doc, Hugh made his first acquaintance with Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. Doc knew most of Twain’s book by heart, and rattled through the “Cole version” on the flatter parts of the route. Thus Hugh entered the world of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, of the negro slave Jim, and the hucksters The Duke and The Prince. He had never taken much interest in reading at school, but through the long miles Doc made the Mississippi world of Twain live for him.
Muller and Stock, after a fruitless appeal by their manager Moltke against Doc’s shortcut into Las Vegas, ruthlessly cut down his lead, and by Grand Junction, Colorado, on the fringe of the Rockies, they were a few minutes ahead.
The daily quality of the young Germans’ running was beyond even Doc’s experience. After every marathon he had always needed time to forget the pain before he could face the next race. Yet these lean Teutonic youths were running two marathons a day, five days a week, at close to nine-minute miles.
Doc knew that worrying about Stock and Muller was going to serve no purpose. If the Germans were running at the winning pace, so be it. But if Doc and Hugh were ever going to catch them then they must run at their own speed, in a cocoon of their own making. This cocoon was not only physical but psychological and so, every morning, Doc would take Hugh out into the Rockies and there they would talk to themselves, reciting the same strange litany: “I am a distance runner. My bones are light, my muscles lean. My heart will pump blood forever, flushing my muscles with oxygen.”
Their voices would echo through the mountains, for Doc insisted that the litany be occasionally shouted, as if it were not merely an affirmation of their nature but a gesture of defiance.
“I am a runner. I live as a runner. I eat as a runner. I see the weather, the road, the world as a runner. I have come to run fifty miles a day, six days a week.”
At first Hugh had felt foolish, and had kept his voice low until they were well out of earshot of the camp. At first, too, the words seemed trite, and he mumbled them without conviction or understanding, just as he had the Lord’s Prayer years before at school. Gradually, however, like the Lord’s Prayer, Doc’s litany began to assume a strength that it had not at first possessed. Hugh was, in truth, becoming a runner. What they were describing was him as he now was – distance runner, part of the seamless live continuum that was snaking its way painfully through and over the Rockies.
“Know what I think?” said Doc one day in Green River. “We can’t lose. ’Cos we came here with nothing, we came here beat. Hugh, what did you have in Glasgow in your Broo Park? Nothing! And Morgan? Martinez? Nothing.
“The way I see it, every single mile we put in, every foot of ground we cover, that’s a victory. Every time we think of stopping and keep going, that’s another victory. Every goddam moment on that road is too. Out here we grow every day. We grow, don’t you see? What’s more, we thumb our noses at the bastards all over the world who forced us out here.”
Hugh’s response was less philosophical. “The way you tell it, Doc, we’ve scored one helluva lot of victories this last month. But who knows about them? Who really cares a damn?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Doc. “There’re millions of middle-aged guys out there wondering how ol’ Doc Cole’s getting on, thousands of wetbacks listening to people reading the newspapers aloud to each other so they can hear about Juan Martinez. Back in your Broo Park in bonnie Scotland I bet you’re some kind of god! But most important, do you know who knows? You know. You know what you’ve done out here, day after day, win or lose, sink or swim. Hell, Hugh, it’s part of you and you’ll never forget it.”
Hugh had grudgingly to admit that his running partner was right. Day after day he felt himself grow stronger, more confident. The rotten decay of Broo Park was being burnt out of him by the endless miles, the daily challenges faced and met. Even so, the early days in the Rockies were like those first days in the Highlands, for pain and stiffness never left his legs. The steep climbs and descents brought into play small remote groups of muscle-fibres which were not used on the flat plains or on gentler inclines. Thus every day it took at least half an hour’s walking and trotting with Doc before he became sufficiently loose to face that day’s running.
In the coal mines Hugh knew that men went only one of two ways, to “bull” or to “wi
re”. Those who went to “bull” developed massive shoulders, arms and thighs, while those who went to “wire” became lean, spare, stringy. The Trans-America caused everyone in it to go to wire. Before the race Hugh had been one hundred and fifty-four pounds of what he had thought was solid bone and muscle. Now he was one hundred and forty-five pounds. The hills made his thighs rock hard, an anatomical chart fit for medical students, the separate heads of the quadriceps showing fine and clear like rivers seen from above, with the diagonal sartorius etching its way across his thighs to the inside of his knees. Behind the thigh, when he stretched his legs, his hamstrings stood out like bowstrings, and on recovery bulged like soft, muscular breasts.
Daily he had chugged up the hills with Doc, the mountains pumping pain into them like a bicycle pump. They ran as if driven by one heart and one will, and occasionally, when their strides matched, like one man.
Though a few runners already wore long-johns and jerseys and gloves – bought during their rest days – they were never really warm as they faced close to zero temperatures, sharpened by cutting winds. Even Muller slowed up, though, with each stage, he continued to add minutes to his narrow lead.