....what happened to three inmates who, in 1962, escaped from Alcatraz in a raft they constructed inside the prison? INSEPARABLE is a novel based on the escape was published by DX Varos in June, 2022, on the sixtieth anniversary of the escape.
In this novel, two of the escapees, the Anglin brothers, are helped to freedom by a thirteen year-old boy. He finds them, barely alive, on a tiny beach just south of Sausalito, where he lived with his mother, a Korean War widow. In the novel, the boy helps the Anglins evade the cops, the FBI, the Coast Guard, an obsessed member of the media – as well as the boy's mother.
NOTE: Last year Dan Willis, the owner of DXVaros and publisher of this novel, passed away. After a year in probate, with his executor still without access to sales data, we have been given the rights back to our work. Happy to report my book is back on Amazon in both Kindle and Paperback here.
(Click on links to read the full review)
The Midwest Book Review said INSEPARABLE "is highly recommended for historical novel enthusiasts."
Carol Rae's Ramblings wrote the book is "fast-paced and intriguing.... a heck of a ride..."
Goodreads Gud Reader says INSEPARABLE is “An amazing debut...”
Locks, Hooks and Books wrote “a great debut for the talented David Kruh”
Tangled Skeins wrote INSEPARABLE is “ a fantastic work of historical fiction...”
StoreyBook Reviews said the novel is an "outstanding adventure..... great for book clubs."
Bee@Bookpleasure wrote INSEPARABLE is "A five-star read..."
Celtic Lady’s Reviews called the book is “electrifying."
David is a frequent speaker on a number of subjects, including his Alcatraz novel. (A complete list of his shows - and David's contact info - is available here.) Here's a YouTube posted by one of the organizations where I spoke.
On June 22, 2011 Whitey Bulger, who had “taken it on the lam” in 1994 (after a rogue FBI agent tipped the South Boston criminal of an impending indictment) was captured. Nowhere in the world was this story bigger than in my adopted home of Boston, Massachusetts. To appreciate how huge, a bit of context is required.
I moved to Boston in 1981 and was immediately struck by the duality of one this country's oldest cities. On the one hand is what I call the “George Washington slept here” history, that of a city which proudly touts its pivotal role in the American Revolution. In the other hand are the neighborhoods hard by the Constitution, Freedom Trail and the Tea Party ship. They are the Boston populated by descendants of immigrants who had spent generations fighting for survival against nativist prejudice(s).
No immigrant group carries a bigger chip on its shoulders than the Irish. This was especially true in Southie (that's South Boston to you.) Their defense of their own can be vociferous. It was even more so when talk came to Whitey Bulger. In the early 1980s I remember someone saying to me, in almost reverential tones, “Yea, he's a criminal but... he's keeping drugs out of Southie.” Whitey was the stuff of legend. But in the 1990s, we learned the legend was a load of crap. Whitey wasn't keep drugs out of Southie, he was making a fortune dealing junk... ruining hundreds of lives while murdering dozens to cement his hold on the drug trade. And it was all under the care and protection of that rogue FBI agent. As detailed in Dick Lehr and Gerard O'Neil's Black Mass, Whitey earned his protection by helping the Feds take down the Italian mafia. In other words, he was a rat. More on that shortly.
Okay, so now back to June 22, 2011. I happened to be in San Francisco that week on vacation with my family. On the very day we had taken a tour of Alcatraz we returned to our hotel to see the news bulletin on a TV in the bar that Whitey Bulger – #2 on of the FBI's Most Wanted Fugitives (bin Laden was #1) – had been captured.
This. Was. Huge. So huge I said to hell with my cell phone's roaming charges and called my buddy Marty back in Southie. Wiseguys were already laying odds on how long Whitey would last in the joint after conviction (which everyone knew was assured.) Turns out he didn't even last a day after his transfer to the U.S. Penitentiary, Hazelton in West Virginia. There, the wheelchair-bound Bulger was beaten to death by two inmates. A wrongful death lawsuit brought by the family against the Justice Department was dismissed.
Flash forward to the Fall of 2020 when I began work on INSEPARABLE. During my research I discovered Whitey had been an inmate at Alcatraz at the same time Frank Morris, John Anglin and Clarence Anglin escaped in their homemade raft. Which meant Whitey, along with every other inmate, would have heard about prisoner Allen West. He was supposed to be the raft but couldn't get out of his cell in time. West turned informer to lessen his punishment for his role in the escape. He became... a rat. This was too good to pass up. Now I had a way to get Whitey – that erstwhile Boston legend – into my book. Here's an extract from page 179...
Prisons are notoriously poor places to keep a secret, and word of Allen West's cooperation with authorities had spread to all corners of Alcatraz. Every inmate had an opinion, but none were stronger than prisoner AZ-1428, a bank robber from Boston who resided in Block C, Cell 314. He had heard of Allen West's cooperation with authorities, how he was telling the bulls everything he knew, including details of how Morris and the others had constructed a raft big enough for four men. Some of the inmates were willing to forgive Allen West for singing. After all, the other three were already gone and nothing he could say would be of much help to the authorities, anyway. But prisoner AZ-1428 was not so forgiving. Disgusted at how quickly Allen West had flipped, Whitey Bulger kept repeating “What a fucking rat.”
June 21, 1962, 9:15pm
San Francisco was the cruelest trick ever played on the prisoners of Alcatraz Island.
The city was less than two miles away, so close if the wind was just right the cons could hear music and voices and laughter emanating from that glittering jewel of a city. On those nights John Anglin, prisoner number AZ1476, lay in his cot and covered his ears with a pillow because he couldn't bear the sound of all those happy, free voices. But tonight, as he stood at the water's edge of Alcatraz Island, he strained into the breeze, wanting to hear all those sounds because soon he, too, would be free.
Free. Yea, sure, he and the other men on the beach were probably crazy to think this plan would work, that they would succeed where dozens of others had failed... and died. Go ahead, call them crazy but, screw it, John couldn't go back to that crummy little cell on this crummy island, not with all that freedom just a couple of miles away.
Standing near John was his brother Clarence. As they rubbed their arms and stamped their feet to keep warm, they watched the third member of their group, Frank Morris, connect a hose to a concertina he had cleverly modified into a pump. At the other end of the hose was what was supposed to be a raft, the result of six months gluing together strips of rubber from dozens of prison-issued raincoats. But right now, all they had was a mass of blue-green rubber lying flat and inert on the ground. It sure as hell didn't look like a raft. John saw his brother's lips moving in silent prayer as Frank slowly pulled on both sides of the concertina, filling the bellows with air.
“Okay, here we go,” Frank said as he brought his hands together, compressing the fabric between the handles. Nothing happened. The thing on the ground was still just a useless lump of rubber. Frank grimaced and pulled out on the instrument's handles and then back in again. Clarence saw it first, in the light of the moonlight, bulging out like the neck of the bullfrogs they used to catch back in Georgia, the rippling blue-green fabric getting larger. The raft was slowly inflating. John couldn't help himself from saying out loud what they were all thinking. “Holy shit, this is going to work.”
As Frank continued to manipulate the concertina's handles and blow up the raft, Clarence nudged his brother with his elbow. “Hey John.” “What?” “Look back up there,” Clarence said, motioning behind them to the prison complex they had just left. Clarence was almost giddy. “They don't know. No alarms or searchlights or anything. They really fell for those heads we made –”
“It's ready.” They turned and in the dim light saw the rare sight of a smile on Frank's face. On the beach it sat, just like a real raft, inflated and ready for action. “Let's get it in the water,” they heard Frank say. The three men gently lifted the raft and carefully, as if carrying a newborn, brought it to the edge of the rocky beach. “Don't stop,” Frank said. “We need get in deeper water so the bottom doesn't get cut by the rocks.” John nodded, grudgingly. Frank was right. Again. After all the work that went into making the raft it would have been cruel for it to rip open before they even got it into the water. “Come on. And don't splash. We can't afford to make any noise.” The three men gingerly crab-walked about ten feet from the shore, where the water was just over their knees.
“Okay, this is good. Grab your paddles and get in,” Frank said. This was it. The final test. Clarence Anglin drew in his breath. Slowly, as if lowering himself into a bathtub of hot water, Clarence got into the raft. He looked up at his brother and nodded. It was still afloat. So far, so good. Then John got in, followed by Frank. For a few seconds they said nothing as they bobbed gently in the water. Even Frank – dour, single-minded Frank – seemed to be enjoying the moment.
Then, without saying a word, all three men thrust their paddles into the water and stroked. The raft slowly moved forward. “Angel Island, here we come,” the brothers heard Frank say as the darkness enveloped them.
Copyright © 2024 David Kruh - All Rights Reserved.
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