Outside on the sidewalk he looked to his left - no Clem. He turned and looked right - no Clem. By-ned...! I’ve come so close! I can’t run to the School Book building on the far side of the square, and up the back fire-escape in six minutes, it’s too far... just to far!!! Picture!! I need a picture of the sixth floor of the Book Depository building.
He had just finished snapping the photo thinking all hope seemed lost when around the corner stormed Clem in his grey Nash Rambler station wagon. The Dallas police officer on foot blocking the south end of Houston was frantically blowing his whistle, “Stop! Stop! Road closed!” Luckily he was afoot and could not pursue Clem and his station wagon. Clem, ignoring the police office, slammed on the brakes with a squeal in front of the City Jail. He hollered, “Git in John, git in!!” Clem peeled away from the curb as fast as his old bucket of bolts could travel. He proceeded north on Houston. The police had just begun to block the intersection, but he had blown through the barricade at the corner of Elm and Houston before it was in place. A few cars lengths past the roadblock Clem stomped on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, allowing the car to slid to a stop beside the east side of the Book building, close to the rear.
Captain Scarburg’s feet were already touching the asphalt of Houston Street before Clem could get the Rambler fully stopped. “Five minutes to go... Clem get back around to your parking place on Main Street, now...” he yelled as he started running down the sidewalk toward the fire escape.
“Can’t have but a minute or two left,” he said out loud.
The time was 12:27 p.m.
Earlier on the way in from Celina they had “borrowed” a police ‘No Parking’ orange warning cone. Clem had placed the cone in a parking spot around the corner from Houston on Main Street. They had to guarantee Clem would have a place to park. He did.
Up the fire escape, the Captain went. The first two flights of stairs he covered two and three steps at a time. From floors three to seven it was one step at a time. Sucking hard for air, he realized he wasn’t as young as he once was. A step or two from reaching the roof he stopped, bent over with hands on his knees, breathing hard he tried to catch his breath. Slowly he inched himself into a position where he could see the southwest corner of the roof. He was running out of time.
The time was 12:28:30.
There... there he was, the sniper, squatted down behind the brick wall. The rifle appeared to be an old M-1D, 30-06 caliber, military rifle with a mounted telescope. The shooter was still on the far end of the building from Captain Scarburg’s fire escape, but he recognized this particular military rifle. While stationed in South Vietnam, he had seen the M-1D Garand rifle many times while working with the Montagnards or “mountain people.” This particular sniper’s rifle had been one of their favorites. Obviously, they used whatever weapons they could obtain, but this one was sturdy and accurate. If they couldn’t get an M-1D like the one on the roof, they got the older M-1Cs that were obsolete. The older “C” models had been replaced by the newer and better “D” models. Fired at long distances with a 30-06 bullet it made a formidable sniper rifle. The Captain remembered what General George S. Patton had said about the M-1 Garand, "In my opinion, the M1 Rifle is the greatest battle implement ever devised." Certainly, this rifle was more than adequate as a long-range killing instrument.
Glancing over his left shoulder he could see the large yellow and red Hertz Rent-a-Car clock mounted on the roof. Got to get a quick picture, he thought taking a snapshot of the sniper crouched on the roof.
The time was 12: 29:15.
There was no time to huddle behind an air-conditioner, no time to sneak up on the shooter... no time... no time... the Captain only had a minute... actually just less than one minute - forty-five seconds to be exact.
Taking the last step from the metal fire escape he slipped his leg over the brick wall and onto the asphalt and gravel roof. He tried to be as silent as humanly possible. He feared his charge across the roof and the crunching noise his shoes would make on the gravel would only give him a couple of seconds before the shooter turned and possibly shot him stone cold dead.
One more look at the clock.
The time was 12:29:35!!!
It was now or never!! Captain Scarburg knew from the fire escape to the south side of the building was one hundred feet or something less than forty yards. He began his bolt across the roof, running faster than he ran the forty yard dash back in high school football...one second... two seconds... three seconds... the sniper heard the footfalls and began to turn in the Captain’s direction - the muzzle of the M-1 began to move too. His best time for forty yards had been 4.8 seconds, but he had been seventeen years old!! Across the roof he ran, it seemed like his feet were stepping in syrup, but somehow when he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed for the barrel of the M-1.
Startled, the assassin touched the trigger with his finger, the rifle fired. It could not have been accurately aimed since the sniper’s head was beginning to turn toward Captain Scarburg.
Was that a bright blue flash of light? Or was it just the flash from the rifle discharging? No, it couldn’t be, it was blue! It happened so quickly; it was hard to say exactly what was the source of the flash.
The two bodies crashed into each other... it was the best tackle the Captain ever made. At the University of Alabama, he was a linebacker and punished many a runner. But he didn’t believe he had ever hit a running back as hard as he tackled this shooter. Both men tumbled over onto the gravel surface of the roof. The shooter landed on top. He was attempting to regain his feet, Captain Scarburg was grabbing at him when the sniper slipped his grip – the shooter leapt to his feet grabbed his rifle and fled down the rear fire escape.
What was that... another rifle shot? Yes, yes, it was a rifle shot being fired, and the noise was back toward the other end of the building. Since the building is a perfect square one hundred feet by one hundred feet, this shot had to be about one hundred feet to his east.
Exhausted, overwhelmed and totally drained of his adrenalin Captain Scarburg could not feel the sharp gravel of the roof punching into his back as he lay on the roof looking upwards toward the large rectangular clock – all he felt was the exhilaration of Mission Accomplished!!!