Bill Redmann: Scourge of the Texas Skies
A Warriors of the Air Special Report

By Paul "Fireball" Byrne, Field Correspondent

A Note From The Editor
In general, we at Warriors of the Air strive for accuracy in our reporting. We send correspondents to any corner of North America—and beyond—in order to bring you, loyal reader, the truth.

To some extent, we let our subjects speak for themselves. We let them describe their exploits in their own words, so you can get a better understanding of what makes today's aviators the best of the best.

In some cases, we can only report the facts objectively. Pirates who have just attacked a cargo zeppelin don't often like to admit to their crimes in print, for example. So, we report the facts objectively, here and in the pages of Air Action Weekly.

And sometimes, objectivity just isn't possible.

Three weeks ago, Paul Byrne—a former barnstormer and cropduster, and a rookie correspondent for Warriors of the Air—began sending us telegrams from the field, giving us a first-hand look at one of the deadliest, notorious pilots in the air.

—Jake Kirby, Managing Editor

Day One
Jake: Today, I landed in Austin, Republic of Texas, after an exhausting trip from Sky Haven (a pirate enclave nestled in Free Colorado).

Since signing on as a stringer for Warriors of the Air, I've been trying to find "one big story," a scoop that would take me from the ranks of freelance aviation writer to full-time reporter.

And now, I think I've found it. I'm going to keep sending you my notes, and, when I get back East, I think we'll have a hell of a story. Bill Redmann—the infamous rogue Texas Ranger—has invited me to join his gang.

Day Two
This morning, I was met at my plane by a tall, formidable-looking woman. She was a striking lady with jet black hair, very pretty, except for the long, thin scar that ran across her face. And, she was scowling.

She always scowls, it turns out.

She wouldn't identify herself, but said that the Marshall had sent her. Her accent was Russian.

She said the Marshall had instructed her to lead me to their current encampment. After refueling my bird, she climbed in. We flew north, northeast for about 100 miles, setting down at one of the many makeshift landing strips that dot the Texas desert.

There were a half-dozen other planes on the field in addition to my beat-up Defender. A couple of Devastators, a Brigand, a Fury. And a Sanderson "Vampire" with Redmann's distinctive nose art, a rose run through by a blood-tipped dagger.

I'm in, Jake. Wish me luck.

Day Three
Jake: I'm now "officially" part of Redmann's Gang. (He prefers the group be called "Redmann's Raiders," and he despises the name the papers—Air Action Weekly in particular—has "saddled him with."

I had to pass muster, though.

I must admit, I was pretty nervous when he came out to inspect me and my plane. He's taller than I thought, and less fearsome in person than I expected. It was strange: his picture in newsreels and wanted posters is always stern and fierce. In person, though, he can be kind of charming.

Now, I've heard the stories and I've read the dime novels, so I was dreading what was coming next. He asked me to demonstrate my flying skills, a test which—according to the rumors that surround Redmann—many didn't survive.

"I heard you were damn good in your fight against that Escobar fella," he drawled, his Texas accent very pronounced. "I want to see for myself." He suggested we play "follow-the-leader," to see if I could keep up with him. We took off, heading up to 1,000 feet and leveling off. He tried a few simple maneuvers: barrel rolls, Immelman turns, that kind of thing. No problem.

Then, he radioed me: "Let's try dogfighting. Try and get me off your six."

He snaprolled, throttled back and landed right on my tail. I began to evade, trying every trick I knew and pushing my battered old Defender to the limit. The whole time, he kept on my tail until, at the last second, I pulled his own trick on him: I snaprolled, throttled back and ended up on Bill Redmann's six.

"Pretty good, kid," he told me later. "Cossack is the only other one in the gang who managed to pull off the same stunt."

I passed muster, all right.

Day Four
Jake: I learned some interesting things last night as the gang settled down for chow. I began gently questioning the group about their exploits, trying to get an idea of what my new "crew" was like.

My first question was about the lady who brought me to the group: Anna "Cossack" Rasputin. She was supposed to be dead, at Redmann's hands, after the Marshall's "retirement" from the Texas Rangers. Her death, and Redmann's double- and triple-crosses were well-established pulp novel fodder, and people called the incident "The Great Helium War." It even made the papers as far away as the Atlantic Coalition.

"Don't believe everything you read," she told me. "It was to our advantage for our rivals to believe that I was dead. It made them easier to take down."

There are lots of stories about Redmann: how he downed "Fireman" Kelley, his superior officer and a longtime family friend; how he personally flamed a Dixie passenger zep, killing everyone aboard; how he earned the nickname "Gravedigger" while he was a Texas Ranger, because of his propensity for strafing people on the ground; and how he was the mastermind of a takeover of the Trout Industries helium mines.

"Most of these stories are contradictory," I said. "So which ones are true, and which ones are Texas tall tales?"

"Why, all of them are true," Redmann replied with a cryptic grin.

It occurs to me, Jake, that maybe Redmann's fierce, bloodthirsty persona is a big sham, a put-on. All the stories about him are wildly different. Some say he was drummed out of the Rangers for shooting down the Dixie zep; others say he committed mutiny and high treason in "The Great Helium War."

Maybe none of them are true. Maybe Redmann has cultivated this duplicitous, frightening persona because it keeps his enemies at bay. Your enemies can't exploit your weaknesses if they don't know what they are, right?

I can't really say much right now. I've been appointed "supply officer," which means first thing tomorrow, I have to fly back to Austin for food, mail and news. Lucky break, though—it means I can keep in touch.

Day Five
We hit a Mexican border patrol airfield today. In combat, Redmann is every bit the cunning warrior people make him out to be. He downed three Mexican planes while the rest of us chewed up the defenses.

Three downed planes, three pilots hit the silk.

And all three walked away.

"Marshall," I called out on the radio, "why didn't you take them all down?"

"Because we're businessmen, not savages," he snapped. "Don't believe everything those Air Action Weekly idiots print."

Day Six
We took the border patrol base, no problem. Redmann led us in on foot, and we managed to apprehend the few Mexican guards who hadn't fled into the desert.

We seized ammo, rockets and a small supply of helium. A good day's work, with minimal body count.

I'm really excited, Jake. Redmann told me he was very pleased with my performance, and that he wanted to discuss my future with the gang when we get back to Texas.

I think I'm in for a promotion! I can see it now: "Reporter Flies As Redmann's Wingman!"

What a scoop!

A Final Word From The Editor
According to eyewitness reports, the Marquette Defender flown by Paul "Fireball" Byrne was destroyed by rocket fire from "Marshall" Bill Redmann's Sanderson Vampire as he returned from a supply run to Austin.

Ground observers noted that Redmann's plane—a familiar sight in the skies above Austin—approached uncontested, and moved into an escort position before turning and opening fire.

Shortly after the incident, this office received a telegram from "Marshall" Bill Redmann that said the following:

"KEEP YOUR SPIES AND SNOOPS AT HOME OR I'LL BURY THEM AS WELL."

Air Action Weekly Press, in cooperation with the Texas Rangers, is authorizing a $10,000.00 reward for the capture or elimination of William Redmann.

—Jake Kirby, Managing Editor