My Life with Bonnie and Clyde (24 page)

Then my vision suddenly faded out. All was dark. I thought my eyes had been damaged by bullets and glass. But I felt no pain. I was past feeling pain. Then, when hot blood began to stream down on my face, I thought some of it was water from my shattered eyes.

“They got my eyes!” I said. “I can’t see!”

No one heard me.
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Dexfield Park

I
DIDN’T KNOW WHICH
way we turned when we left the cabins, but we hadn’t gone far when I heard Clyde say one of the rear tires was flat. Soon he turned down a side road.
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“This looks like an old barn,” he said. “Maybe we can get to it and stay long enough to change tires.”

But he couldn’t. The car hit high center and bottomed out. The ruts in the road were too deep and he couldn’t make the grade, especially with a flat tire. Clyde got out of the car.

“Blanche,” he said. “Go to the road and watch for car lights while W. D. and I fix the tire.”

I told him I couldn’t see.

“My God!” he said. “Did you get shot too?”

“Yes,” I said. But I told him to see how badly Buck was shot.

They struck a match and looked at both of us. Buck was conscious again. I got something from the bag to wipe the blood from his head. By this time most everything was wet with blood, as if dipped in water. The floor-board of the car was so soaked we could hear the blood gush under our feet. Buck wanted to get out of the car, saying he had to have more air. So we helped him out. He sat on the running board of the car and asked for something else to wipe the blood from his head. I felt around for the bag and got something out and gave it to him. Then I tried to wipe the blood off my face. I found that my eyes were in better shape than I originally thought. Clyde looked at them.

“The eyeballs are not busted!” he said.

I finally got my right eye cleaned out enough to barely see light. I tried to see the wound on Buck’s head but couldn’t tell much about it. I was afraid he would merely bleed to death if the shot had not gone far enough into his head to kill him. He didn’t complain. He only said his head hurt a little and that he wanted water. When I found that I could see light with my right eye, Clyde asked me if I thought I could see car lights. I told him I thought I could.

I kissed Buck and started to feel my way to the road. I fell a couple of times before I got there, but each time I just got up and kept on going. I hated to leave Buck for even a minute but someone had to watch the road. When I kissed Buck, blood streamed down on my lips. What a sickening smell, blood and gunpowder. I got so sick I started vomiting.

While I was out by the road, acting as lookout, the car rolled off the jack and Buck fell to the ground. I heard it and stumbled back to him, trying to run. Buck just held his head. “Oh, God!” I thought. “How much more of this can I take without collapsing?” But I knew I couldn’t collapse no matter what happened. I had to try and help Buck somehow, even if I couldn’t see very well. About all I could do was try to protect him from more bullets with my own body. I wanted to live as long as he did. When he died, I wanted to die with him. He needed me now more than ever before. He could no longer help himself.

Buck didn’t know I’d been shot. I tried to keep it from him.

It took a long time for Clyde and W. D. to get the tire fixed so we could start driving again. After we got moving, we found we had yet another flat tire. Both rear tires had been shot full of lead! They would have to get a pump from some place. Eventually we stopped at a farmhouse and borrowed what was needed.
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We had a terrible time getting out of that part of the country.
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At daybreak, we were only fourteen miles from Kansas City, Missouri.
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We stopped at a filling station to get gas.
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Clyde told me to get Buck covered and for both of us try to lie down like we were asleep. I tried to cover us both so the station operator wouldn’t see all the blood, but while we were sitting there, Buck got sick to his stomach and came out from under the covering. He didn’t even know we were stopped at a station. The operator came up to the car and looked in. Clyde said he knew that guy would call Kansas City, which would make us hotter than ever. He said we wouldn’t be able to get away this time. I was surprised that Clyde didn’t kill that operator.

“Noah’s Ark,” the old covered bridge across the Little Platte River used at least three times by the fugitives during the night of July 19–20, 1933. “We had a terrible time getting out of that part of the country.” (Photograph by Shirley Kimsey)

While we were under the light at the station, I could see blood all over Buck’s face and head. I had wiped a lot of glass from my right eye and I could see better with it, but only if I was real close to what I was looking at. I was just as bloody as Buck. My hair was wet with blood.

We rode all that day, only stopping to get gas, except for one place where Clyde got some bandages, Mercurochrome, and alcohol.
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He also got some aspirin for Buck and me. Then we tried to bandage Buck’s head. Buck had some Amytal capsules in his pocket, but he had lost so much blood that his heart seemed too weak for him to take them. I was afraid he would die. He had taken the capsules out of the medical kit a couple of days earlier, saying someone may get shot and need them to ease the pain. He knew Clyde and Bonnie would never think to grab the kit if we got into a battle. They would always forget to put it in the car. When we needed it the most, we never had it.
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The only way I can describe the next few days is to say it was a living, torturing hell! I was afraid to go to sleep for fear Buck would die. I couldn’t eat. Food was the last thing I could think of and when I did try to eat, it choked me.

We finally stopped in a wooded area. I later learned it was Dexfield Park, near Dexter, Iowa.
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Buck was slowly slipping away from me and there wasn’t anything I could do about it, living like a wounded, trapped animal in the woods without the care of a doctor or a bed to lie down on. Clyde fixed a
car cushion for Buck to stretch out on beside the car, under a tree. I sat beside him. Sometimes he was so still I would feel his pulse or place my hand on his chest to see if he was still alive. He never complained, but I knew he must be suffering. We put ice on his head.
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That seemed to give him more relief than anything else we did.

Escape from Platte County, Missouri; scale: 1 in = 1½ mi. Based on research conducted by Shirley Kimsey and LaVern Taulbee.

Dexfield Park, Iowa, during its heyday in the 1920s. “We finally stopped in a wooded area. I later learned it was Dexfield Park.” (From the Blanche Caldwell Barrow scarpbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)

Buck begged me to lie down beside him and go to sleep. So to please him I would lie down. I was so tired, but I was afraid to go to sleep. I would always hold his wrist or put my hand over his heart. It’s what he wanted me to do. Sometimes when I thought he was asleep he would reach out to me and just hold me tight, as if he couldn’t let me go. But he wouldn’t say anything or try to open his eyes. I could hardly keep from screaming with the fear that gripped me. How could I give him up like this? I just couldn’t live if he died. I loved him too much to have to give him up, dead or alive. I wanted to go with him, whether he lived or died. If we both died together, we would die happy.

When Clyde and Bonnie went for food, they always left W. D. to watch over us.
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W. D. told us how tired he was of the outlaw life. He said he wished he could leave and forget all about it. We told him he might have a chance to do that if he left right away and went to work someplace. No
one knew he was with us or had his fingerprints. He was young. He could make life worthwhile for himself if he tried. And he had seen enough of this life to know it was a game that he couldn’t win. You always lose in the end. If you don’t die from some officer’s bullets, you’ll end up spending the rest of your life in prison, or go to the chair. Either way, it’s death or prison in the end.

Bonnie and Clyde camped outdoors. “We had wanted to leave the park that night.” (Phillips Collection)

On July 23, we rode to some town nearby and Clyde got another car.
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Our other car had eighteen bullet holes in it. Buck could hardly stand the ride. He couldn’t sit up and he would get too hot and short of breath lying down in the car. We had wanted to leave the park that night and take Buck someplace where he could have a bed to lie down in, perhaps someplace with some of his people that the officers didn’t know about. That way Clyde and Bonnie and W. D. could leave us. But Buck couldn’t ride, so we went back to the park.
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None of us felt very safe there, but Clyde said it was the safest place he could find. We hoped Buck would feel more like riding the next day.

That evening, about sundown, Clyde took one of the cars and drove into town with Bonnie. They left W. D. with Buck and me in the other car.
We had been trying to get Buck to eat. I asked him if he could eat some fried chicken.

“Anyone could eat fried chicken!” he said.

So Clyde brought back five fried chicken dinners and fixed a plate of food for both Buck and me.
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I couldn’t eat mine, but I held Buck’s plate for him. He seemed to be feeling better. He could sit up. Then he noticed I wasn’t eating anything.

“Baby,” he said. “What’s the use of me eating and trying to get well if you are going to starve yourself to death? The only reason I am trying to get well is because of you. If you die, I won’t get well. If you hadn’t been with me, I would have already been dead. I am just living for you. When you are gone, I’ll go too.”

I tried harder to eat and managed to swallow some of the food, but it had no taste. He got up and stood on his feet. I helped him walk a few steps.

That night we slept in the car, as we always did.
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I sat up. Bonnie tried to get me to sleep in the front seat. I couldn’t go on without food or sleep. She said she would sit by Buck and if he seemed to make any change, she would wake me. He was feeling better so I got in the front seat and lay down. But I couldn’t go to sleep. I was afraid to be that far away from Buck, fearing he may miss me. So I went back to him so I could touch him and know every move he made. Buck would sometimes tear the bandage off his head and start digging into the wound with his fingernails. Sometimes it was all I could do to hold his hands away from the place.
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