October 24, 2002

In 1950, the R.E.A. strung wires across the 09 Divide, bringing an end to generators, wind chargers, and Coleman lanterns. Doorbells and door knockers were the only appliances separating us from city folks. Had we wired in a bell, the clapper would have rusted from disuse. Living 22 miles from a post office with 15 miles of dirt track, we'd bound from the house at the sight of dust or the sound of a motor, to meet guests at the front gate.

Nowadays, the office is in the front of the house. People go to the back door, out of range of my hearing aids. Absorbed in a word processor on the days the winds rage across this big plateau, I could be the most popular man in northeastern Crockett County without ever noting the attention.

University Land employees frequenting the area know the handicap. They hammer on the back door a few raps, then shout from the kitchen, "MONTE, I KNOW YOU ARE HOME." Takes a few minutes to shut down the computer. I have to hurry or they'll shout again, thinking I didn't hear the first outburst.

In August, a UT land man came to the front door, signaling something important. After a brief greeting, he said, "There's a couple of guys with the Corps of Engineers out back looking for the old World War II bombing targets. We need your help to find the targets. And, Monte, no act, please. These gentlemen don't understand ranchers."

I selected for my hat a 16 year-old Laredo straw, fitting for an antiquarian familiar with war relics. Walked out the back door to face two men dressed in slacks and short-sleeved summer shirts, carrying rolls of maps. They looked out of place, were out of place, so much out of place they didn't know the difference.

Without introduction, the oldest said, "We want you to show us a bombing target at grid so and so."

I replied, "I picked this hat to look my age. I lived here during the bombing in 1943. Every part of Crockett County was a target, along with portions of Irion and Schleicher counties."

The University man might have laughed, but the two Government guys stared as if being addressed in mystic tongues. I continued, "The closest target is over south of this house, about a hundred and fifty yards away from my bedroom. Can't tell where the targets start and where the limits ended, as bombs dropped in all directions and in all pastures."

I paused, searching for a smile, then continued: "Mr. Bode Owens took a hundred-pounder, or maybe a five hundred, to as far as the old drugstore in Barnhart to have it explode in the back of his pickup. Burned him real bad. You'd of liked Bode. He was a good fellow. Barnhart is 18 miles from here. The old drugstore is called the Yellow Rose now." (No response.)

Right quiet, the University man interrupted and asked if I was going to locate the target on Kathleen St. Claire? Audible, I answered, "I'll show you the target, but only if you start laughing at my stories."

Again the faces froze to Mt. Rushmore frowns. Noted right then to never accept an assignment to address a government agency, especially the Corps of Engineers. Might as well have used my material on the next band of missionaries to come by distributing pamphlets as I had those frozen faces. In short, I'd wasted some good stuff on a bum audience.

The drive over to the old bombing range took 10 minutes. Seemed like four hours riding with those muted city guys. In the lull, my thoughts wandered back to the flares floating on silk parachutes, lighting the winter skies over the ranches and the targets, starting grass fires that lasted as long as three days. Twin-engine planes thundering close to the ground, shaking the earth. Bombs hitting with a thud, followed by a sharp clap.

Remembered the Wade brothers losing a big, big string of yearling ewes piled up in fence corners of 40 sections of burned-up ranch. By the time damages were settled by Congress, interest consumed the brothers' equity. I was so distracted I forgot to ask why the Corps of Engineers felt the need to cold trail bombing targets abandoned 60 years ago.

I am no closer to putting in a doorbell than Mother was the day the R.E.A. brought us electricity. The Engineers did disclose that one target had three bombs buried in the bullseye. Must have been planted by foot soldiers, as the student bombardiers of my memory had a hard time hitting within the boundaries of the Pecos and Concho rivers and staying away from the banks of the Rio Grande.

They also found an unexploded bomb. If they hadn't been so unfriendly, I'd have warned them to be sure not to take the bomb to Barnhart and risk being burned like ol' Bode...

October 24, 2002

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