The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,62
guests at first laughed. But the speaker—another waiter from Brooklyn, who many of them knew and trusted—told in quick but vivid detail of what he’d heard on the radio newscasts.
Murmuring confusion built to complete panic, as the guests ran to grab their coats and flee before the outer-space invaders could crash the party.
Connie, in tears, rushed to the stage and took the mike to beg her friends and family to stay. “Please don’t spoil my wedding day, everyone!”
A handful remained.
Rocco was again at the microphone.
He began singing “Amazing Grace.”
“The things, whatever they are, do not even venture to poke their heads above the pit. I can see their hiding place plainly in the glare of the searchlights here. With all their reported resources, these creatures can scarcely stand up against heavy machine-gun fire. Anyway, it’s an interesting outing for the troops. I can make out their khaki uniforms, crossing back and forth in front of the lights. It looks almost like a real war.”
At the Chapman farm, the children’s father, Luke, had arrived.
Grandfather had been moving from window to window, staring into the foggy night, his old double-barrel shotgun (retrieved from a kitchen hiding place) ready to blast Martians into green goo. He’d already organized the two boys (even the skeptical Leroy) in the effort of barricading the farmhouse doors with furniture—which of course meant unbarricading the front door to let their father, carrying his own double-barrel shotgun, inside.
Leroy gave it another try, tugging on his father’s sleeve. “Papa...”
“Yes, son?”
The boy gestured toward the glowing radio. “That isn’t real—it’s just a show, a story. The Shadow is on it.”
His father, whose face resembled Grandfather’s minus most of the wrinkles, smiled gently and knelt—leaning on the shotgun—to look the boy right in the eyes. “Son—we’ve had this talk, haven’t we?”
“What talk?”
“About make-believe and real life. I know you love your shows. I know you love to play cowboy and soldier and spaceman. I know you love the Shadow. But you simply have to learn the difference between fantasy and reality.”
“I know the difference. Do you?”
And the kindness left Luke’s expression. He took the boy roughly by the arm and almost threw him onto the sofa.
“You just sit there, young man!”
Leroy shrugged; his eyes were filling with tears, but he refused to let any fall.
Les sat before the radio hugging his sister, who had stopped crying and lapsed into a trembling silence. The altar of news continued issuing forth updates, none of them encouraging. Right now the Signal Corps captain was describing the battle scene at a farm that was within a few miles of the farmhouse the Chapmans currently cowered within.
“Well, we ought to see some action soon,” the captain was saying. “One of the companies is deploying on the left flank. A quick thrust and it will all be over. Now wait a minute, I see something on top of the cylinder. No, it’s nothing but a shadow. Now the troops are on the edge of the Wilmuth farm, seven thousand armed men closing in on an old metal tube. A tub, rather. Wait...that wasn’t a shadow!”
And Leroy, over on a sofa now, arms folded, smugly smiling as he brushed away a tear with a knuckle, thought, Oh yes it was....
Passing photographers laden with full gear, who were scurrying toward the elevator he’d just departed, Ben Gross entered a Daily News city room that bustled like election eve.
An assistant at the city desk called out, “Hey, Ben—what the hell’s going on tonight?”
“You’re asking me?”
The switchboard was ablaze, lines jammed, phones ringing like a swarm of mechanical baby birds demanding to be fed. In their cubicles, rewrite men frantically tried to get through to CBS with zero luck.
A harried switchboard girl sounded like she was doing a skit on the Jack Benny program. “No, madam...no, sir—we don’t know anything about an explosion in New Jersey.... Men from Mars?... Yeah, we know it’s on the radio, but...it didn’t happen.... Nothing’s going on, I tell you!... No madam...No sir...there ain’t no men from Mars!”
Nearby, another city desk assistant, frazzled beyond belief, was telling an official from the police commissioner’s office, “It’s just a phony—a radio play!”
The assistant city desk man finally hung up, then turned to Gross and pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re the one always touting this guy Welles! You either get CBS on the line, or get your tail over there and see what in God’s name’s going on.”
Gross walked into the radio room and two phones jangled; he picked up