Where the Stars Fall

(See Cover)

A cold cigar lay on the edge of the littered desk. Sitting behind the desk, Alabama's Governor George Corley Wallace, 44, seemed charged with electric intensity. His eyes, burning like lasers, were dark, deep, and eyebrowed over with black bands. His voice was deceptively soft, grace-noted with a Southern drawl, yet tinged with anxiety.

"I deplore violence," said Wallace. He reached for a pack of Dentyne and put a piece in his mouth. "But who started all this violence? There's a lot of agitators and the Communist Party mixed up in this picture, and people pooh-poohing around sitting up in their ivory towers, a bunch of sissy britches." He paused. "I don't believe just because somebody has a grievance that you should destroy the whole fabric of the Constitution, of private property. You don't burn the house down to destroy a rat." Wallace stood up and walked about the office. "If they go ahead," he said, "they will destroy a lot more than they realize."

"Why Did He Do It?" When he talks like that, Wallace sounds like an ordinary Alabama redneck. But he is no such thing--and the more's the pity, since he has become an international symbol of the demagogic segregationist in the Southern region of the U.S. Wallace is in fact a smart, capable lawyer who has in many ways been a first-rate Governor. Since he took office last January, he has pushed through sizable raises in teachers' salaries, begun a big school-construction program, successfully sponsored a $100 million bond issue for roads, cut his own executive department budget by better than $100,000 a year, and--according to statistics that he loves to flourish--persuaded some $250 million worth of new industry to locate in Alabama.

But on the question of civil rights, Wallace is a much different man. He combines the zeal of the true believer with the politician's sharp eye for the success that a segregationist stand can bring in the South. He has deliberately defied the law of the land. He has deliberately sought showdown confrontations with the Federal Government. When those showdowns came, he without exception retreated--as he knew all the while he would have to.

Yet in the wake of his retreats he has left passions that could lead only to such sickening crimes as Birmingham's Sunday school bombing. Today, many Alabamians who yield nothing to Wallace in their devotion to segregation accuse him of bringing about the bombing almost as surely as if he himself had planted the dynamite sticks. Says Birmingham Real Estate Dealer Sidney Smyer, 66, a lifelong segregationist and former state legislator who in recent months has tried to act as a mediator in his city's racial disputes: "There wouldn't have been any trouble if Wallace had stayed out. Why did he do it? Why didn't he let us alone?"

The Brooding State. Why, indeed, didn't he? The answer can partly be found in the life and personality of George Wallace himself. But it can only have real meaning when understood alongside the history of Alabama, a dark and brooding state. Back in the oldtime slave days, the conjure women used to say that the state's destiny was firmly fixed on an awful night long before, when stars fell on Alabama--in a huge, scarring meteoric shower. Alabamians still tell that legend on themselves--and in a curious way it explains much about Alabama as a state of deep superstitions, fierce prides, sudden violence and voiceless fears.

An Immense Irony. With cotton as king and the Negro as slave, Alabama was in the forefront of the secessionist movement that led to the Civil War. It was in Montgomery that the South established the Confederacy and made Jefferson Davis its President. Proudly, Alabama sent about 120,000 men--nearly all of its male white population --into the Civil War. Proudly, it boasted 39 generals. Proudly, it was vanquished.

But unlike many of its sister Southern states, Alabama suffered few ravages from Union troops; indeed, the most notable battle came on the water, with Farragut's damn-the-torpedoes victory in Mobile Bay. What the war did do was rip the foundations from beneath Alabama's cotton-based economy. And what the Civil War did not finish, the boll weevil did.

As a state, Alabama came to know the darkest sort of poverty and to experience the bitterness and hatred that such poverty can inspire. Even today, Alabama rates 47th among the states in per capita income ($1,538), leading only Arkansas, South Carolina and Mississippi. And, at a time when George Wallace is inveighing against the Federal Government in the name of states' rights, the extent to which Alabama depends on economic help from the Government is an immense irony.

When cotton ceased to be king, Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal took its place. The issue of federal v. state sovereignty was all but buried under the weight of federal dollars for public power, military installations, dams, forests and scads of pork-barrel projects. (In 1962 the U.S. Government poured $229 million in grants-in-aid into Alabama.)

The northern tier of Alabama, once pathetically barren, now flourishes under the spur of the Tennessee Valley Authority's cheap public power and of the mushrooming U.S.-financed space-age industries. The missile city of Huntsville, with its glistening new office buildings is the jewel of the valley area. During the decade of the '50s, it almost quintupled in population, now approaches 100,000. West of Huntsville, the tri-cities complex of Florence, Sheffield and Tuscumbia is bursting with new heavy industry, while southeast is Guntersville, a thriving resort area that features fine fishing, sailing and impressive scenery. There, too, along the Tennessee River, is a splendid rolling countryside and good red earth that produces much of Alabama's annual 700,000-bale cotton crop.

Across the whole valley, the federal presence has created the most economically and racially stable section of Alabama. A few months ago, for example, Huntsville desegregated its eating places with hardly a segregationist howl to be heard.

Without Bicker or Bother. Below the northern tier is the Black Belt, cutting a 100-mile-deep, 14-county swath across the state. The Black Belt got its name not so much for its concentration of Negroes as for its fertile dark brown soil. Once the heart of Alabama's cotton kingdom, the rolling, sparsely populated belt has changed radically in recent years: the houses where cotton sharecroppers once lived are now stuffed with hay to feed cattle, for livestock raising has become Alabama's No. 1 agricultural business.

Racist sentiment runs high in the Black Belt. This feeling certainly includes the belt's major city--and state capital--of Montgomery (pop. 134,000), which prides itself on its wide avenues, colonnaded houses, and its devotion to the cause of segregation. It was in Montgomery that Martin Luther King Jr. seven years ago won a boycott-battle to integrate the city's buses; yet today Montgomery whites contentedly point out that most Negroes still sit in the rear of buses because "that's where they like to ride."

To the south is the narrow corridor that gives Alabama access to the sea. The major seaport city of Mobile (pop. 202,000) likes to think of itself as a miniature New Orleans. A cosmopolitan place, Mobile exudes a certain Southern charm, with towering live oaks along the streets, and botanical gardens featuring beautiful azaleas and camellias. Though the harbor is Mobile's chief resource, industry too has come to town: Alcoa is there, along with a couple of paper mills and a fast-growing chemical industry. Like Huntsville, Mobile quietly desegregated its lunch counters without bicker or bother.

"Bombingham." And then there is Birmingham--an entity of its own, a region of the mind. A sooty, sprawling city of 340,000, Birmingham has been called the Pittsburgh of the South. Yet except for its location, it is hardly a Southern city at all.

The center of an area rich in minerals, ranging from iron ore to arsenic, Birmingham was only founded in 1871, has none of the antebellum traditions or grace of the Old South. Its symbol since 1936 has been a forbidding 60-ton, 50-ft.-high, aluminum-coated statue of Vulcan, who was the Roman god of fire. Vulcan, high atop Red Mountain, drew workers like moths from all over the state. Most of them were unschooled, out-of-work farm people, attracted by the promise of prosperous city life.

But instead of finding that life, they found only more poverty, sporadic unemployment--and the threat of job competition from the city's large (40%) Negro population. The result is described by University of Alabama Philosophy Professor Iredell Jenkins in a perceptive if unprofessorial comment. "The obvious thing about Birmingham," says Jenkins, "is that there's just a lot of goddam white trash that's conglomerated there." It is, therefore, no coincidence that since 1947 "Bombingham" has known 50 bombings that can be ascribed to racial conflict--and not one of them has been solved.

All this, then, is Governor George Wallace's Alabama--and he is a true product of his state, with all its conflicts and contrasts, its red moons, pine forests and roiling yellow rivers.

New Deal. He was born in the Barbour County town of Clio (1962 pop. 900). His father, a member of the county board of revenue, died at 40, leaving George to help support his mother. He was a little kid (today he stands 5 ft. 7 in., weighs 150 Ibs.), and a tough one. In high school he became a 98-lb. quarterback on the varsity football team, won Alabama's bantamweight Golden Gloves championship in 1936 and 1937, later fought professionally in one-night stands in tank towns.

Wallace earned his way through the University of Alabama driving taxicabs and slinging hash. He was a big man on campus, a smiling gladhander with the ability to get good grades without excessive study, and he was fascinated by politics. Wallace was, among other things, an ardent New Dealer. Recalls George LeMaistre, who taught Wallace in law school: "In his mind, Franklin Roosevelt couldn't do anything wrong."

When he got out of law school, Wallace could not afford to set up a law practice. He collected 1,000 coat hangers, sold them and his old clothes, lived on the meager proceeds until he got a job -- driving a dump truck. He was still piloting the truck at 23, when he met a clerk in a dime store named Lurleen Burns, 16. They were married in May 1943 and now have four children.

After serving in the Air Force as a B-29 crew member (nine combat missions in the Pacific), Wallace returned to Alabama, put on his political boxing gloves and began slugging. He talked himself into a job as state assistant attorney general, and in 1947 was elected to the legislature. There he sponsored a series of New Dealish bills aimed at helping Alabama in its desperate reach for prosperity.

Snoopers. In 1952 Wallace ran successfully for circuit judge in the third judicial district. In no time at all, he was inviting the Federal Government to step into the ring and put up its dukes. In 1958, during an investigation of voting rights, Wallace defied a federal court order to hand over records to the Justice Department. Instead, "the Fighting Judge," as he came to be called, threatened to imprison any FBI agent who invaded his circuit on a "snooping" mission.

That occasioned the first of George Wallace's several retreats in the face of federal authority. The federal judge was Frank Johnson Jr., an old university buddy and he again ordered Wallace to produce the records. Wallace refused. Johnson then issued a show-cause order, threatening Wallace with contempt. There ensued a hearing, after which Johnson dismissed the contempt citation--on the ground that Wallace had in fact "through devious methods assisted said agents in obtaining" the records. To this day, Wallace insists that it did not happen that way. "This Washington crowd had the federal judge back down," he protests. "When and if they say they didn't back down, they are integrating, scalwagging, carpetbagging liars."

Yet in running for Governor in 1958, Wallace did not campaign as a diehard defender of segregation, but as a candidate who would work to bolster Ala bama's economy, build better schools and better highways. He was defeated in the Democratic primary by John Patterson (TIME cover, June 2, 1961), who did run on an all-out segregationist plat form. In that defeat Wallace learned a lesson. "They just out-segged me," he said to friends. "They're never going to do that again."

They never have. Wallace ran again for Governor in 1962, and this time he was spouting segregationist fire that burned hotter than Vulcan's torch. "As your Governor," he cried, "I shall refuse to abide by illegal court orders to the point of standing at the school-house door if necessary."

Ready for Reaping. Largely on the basis of his pledge to stand in the schoolhouse door, Wallace was easily elected Governor--and he soon got a chance to live up to his promise. Under federal court order, two Negroes, James Hood and Vivian Malone, were scheduled to enroll in the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa last June. For months prior to that, University President Frank Rose had painstakingly planned to comply with the court order in a way that would avoid violence. Rose made it perfectly plain that he did not want Wallace butting in.

But Wallace was undaunted. He would, he still insisted, bar the way to the Negro students; apparently he wanted to force federal marshals to arrest him and haul him off to jail. To be sure, his action might result in some bloodletting, but there seemed plenty of political profits ready for reaping.

In Washington, Attorney General Bobby Kennedy and the White House were determined that Wallace would not get his way. For days the Attorney General and his staff studied a variety of contingency plans. They examined maps, plotted troop movements. Deputy Attorney General Nick Katzenbach set up headquarters in Tuscaloosa. Federal marshals were assembled. Justice Department Aide John Doar briefed the two prospective Negro students ("You should dress as though you were going to church, modestly, neatly").

A Little Push. Shortly before the big day, Bobby and several aides drove to the White House and sat down with the President to lay out their plans. Katzenbach, explained Bobby, would drive to the campus with the two Negroes and leave them in the car. He would walk up to the school entrance where Wallace would be waiting. Katzenbach would ask Wallace politely to step aside and permit the students to enter, as the federal court had ordered. Wallace presumably would refuse. Katzenbach would then order the students to be taken to their dormitories. Bobby would be notified and in turn would tell the President, who would then sign a prepared executive order federalizing the National Guard. Katzenbach would return to the school door and again confront Wallace. This time he would have with him the National Guard commander and four beret-capped Special Forces soldiers. The commander would ask the Governor to let the students pass. If Wallace again refused, the G.I.'s would form a tight wedge and try to move on through.

Said Bobby to his brother: "If he still doesn't move, we'll try and get by him." Asked the President: "Push him?" Replied Bobby: "We might push him a little bit."

The strategy worked. Wallace refused Katzenbach's first request. Bobby got word of that almost immediately. He picked up the phone and called the President. "You heard? . . . Will you sign the proclamation? . . . Sign it now."

Shortly after that, Katzenbach returned to the campus with the National Guard commander and the Special Forces men. There was no need to push. Wallace, retreating once more, stepped aside.

To much of the nation, it seemed that Wallace had acted out a charade, then abjectly surrendered. But not to most white Alabamians, who admired their Governor more than ever as a doughty little defender of segregation. In that atmosphere came the opening this month of Alabama's public elementary and high schools. Birmingham, Mobile, Tuskegee and Huntsville were scheduled to start their integration. Wallace got state troopers, in cars with tags emblazoned by the Confederate flag, to interfere with integration in all four cities. The Federal Administration rather easily outmaneuvered him: President Kennedy again ordered the Alabama National Guard into federal service, and Wallace was beaten. Again Wallace backed away from a real showdown. But again he had aroused violent passions--which led to the Sunday school bombing.

Ready to Shoot. In their angry and anguished protest to that bombing, Alabama Negro leaders such as Martin Luther King and the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth at first demanded that President Kennedy send troops to take over Birmingham. But later last week King, Shuttlesworth and some other Negro leaders went to the White House, talked to the President, and were persuaded to rescind their demand. Instead, they accepted the President's offer to send Earl Blaik, onetime West Point football coach, and Kenneth Royall, former Secretary of the Army and a native North Carolinian, to Birmingham to attempt to mediate racial disputes in the strife-torn city.

In fact, the Blaik-Royall mission was little more than a gesture, a way of indicating Administration concern about Birmingham without bringing on a real federal showdown with Alabama. With a presidential election year coming up, the Democratic Administration is understandably anxious to avoid any such showdown with the once-solid Democratic South. For in a purely political sense, the bitter differences between the Northern and Southern branches of the Democratic Party carry as explosive a potential as any ever dreamed of by a Birmingham bomber.

Alabama's George Wallace is happily aware of that fact, and indeed he is planning to run for President himself next year. It is not that he hopes to win, but that he hopes to hurt Kennedy. Last week in his Montgomery office, he riffled through the mail that has piled high on his desk.

"We've got nearly half a million pieces of mail," he told a visiting newsman. "About 95% favorable, although I don't figure you'll print that. Here's one. 'God willin' I won't vote for Martin Luther Kennedy.' 'Stand up, George, we are still behind you.' 'Thank God for your guts.' 'You have my vote in the Presidential election.' That's from Detroit. 'Dayton, Ohio. Strongly recommend you to run for President against Nigger Kennedy.' "

He picked up his dead cigar and lit it. "I think the people have decided they have been misled. They know we are fighting for principle and not against anything else. It's not too late at all to turn the tide. There's no integration anywhere in the world that's working. You can't make it. We'll have setbacks, but the N.A.A.C.P. kept fighting until it got what it wanted in the courts. We can fight just as long as they did, at least, to change it so it's right again. Just one court decision coming along doesn't mean you can't have another that will change things again. They threw out prohibition 'cause it didn't work, didn't they?

"We just don't like to be run over by this omnipotent Government trying to run our lives. We say the people have the courage and the hope, both races have, to work, and the Constitution will finally be preserved. I will continue to keep the faith in this state as I promised, because in the long run we're going to win if it takes two, three, five or 20 years, because we are right and our cause is just."

He is, of course, not right, and his cause is not just. But in Alabama's civil rights crucible, and with George Wallace's help, Vulcan, the god of fire, might continue to reign for quite a while.

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