He maintains a fatherly attitude toward Israel. But when Sterling dips back into his memories of fifty years ago, he often stumbles upon one dark moment. His friend Bill Saxon was a casualty of Denver's secret war, killed in a car wreck in New Mexico on the way to El Paso to check out a sale of machine guns. "He was the most active of the fellows," Sterling says, his eyes clouding with tears. "And he was a good guy."
But even this mournful tale was not the kind of war story you talked about. The statute of limitations didn't run out for quite some time, and the story of American Jews' arms-smuggling didn't really surface until author Leonard Slater wrote The Pledge in 1970. In it, he devoted a short section to Sterling's cadre, admiringly referring to it as the Rocky Mountain Lavender Hill Mob, after the British movie that celebrated a band of unlikely robbers.
Now that he can talk about it, Bernie Springer, 76 and a retired insurance man, recalls his anger in 1947 at the plight of his fellow Jews.
"We heard stories of the Holocaust," he says. "I tell you, man, it would drive you nuts. Are we a lambie-pie or are we tough? We were lambie-pies up to a point. From the time of the Inquisition, Jews were picked on and were subservient. In Europe, they would crawl into a hole. But it became different. You want to play hardball? We'll play hardball."
Tough talk like that isn't Sam Sterling's style. "I can't say it was anger," he says. "And I don't think I did it for the sake of adventure. On the other hand, the adventure appealed to me."
That spirit was in his blood.
His father, Harry Sterlin, was drafted into the Russian army when he was nineteen years old for a 25-year stint; in 1904, during the Russo-Japanese war, he was sent to Vladivostok. "One day," says Sam Sterling, "they were having a parade. He was in the cavalry, and he was walking his mount over to the parade grounds when the mount happened to step into a muddy stretch of land. When he got to the parade grounds, the troop officer saw the mud and hit my father in the face with a leather quirt.
"He decided he had had enough of the Russian Army. That night he deserted and went over to the port, went to a cargo boat and signed up for the trip--wherever it was going. It happened to be San Francisco."
Harry Sterlin jumped ship in San Francisco and was admitted to the country--after officials added a "g" to his name. The Hebrew Immigration Aid Society sent him to Pueblo, where he opened a little store and got married. Sam Sterling was born in 1907. But his mother died during the nationwide influenza epidemic of 1918, and his father died two and a half years later, so he and his two younger brothers were farmed out to his mother's sisters. Sam wound up in Fort Morgan, where he graduated from high school, and then went on to the University of Denver and DU law school.
While a student, he joined the National Guard cavalry--he loved horses--and stayed in until his gout forced him out. During World War II he switched over to the Army Air Corps.
Sterling is too self-effacing to call himself an adventurer, but his son Harry attests to it. "My dad is a romantic man in the true sense of the word," he says. And the years haven't dimmed that. A few years ago Harry suggested they take a trip. He figured his dad would settle for someplace like the Broadmoor or Sun City, Arizona. No, Sam Sterling picked Alaska. "It was a natural continuation of his sense of adventure," says Harry.
Harry's dad just can't admit to his need for it.
"I was very happy to do it," he says of his days as a secret agent. "I was glad to get out of the office, anyway.
