Under the Red Sea Sun

by Edward Ellsberg

  On the credit side of that ledger, however, there were some offsets. A freighter from America had come in a few days before with a considerable number of portable air-conditioning units, some new salvage pumps I had ordered in New York, and a large number of cases of small hand tools of all kinds for me.

  With the air-conditioners, I could fix up not only our quarters completely, but also the barracks for the men so all hands might have a chance to sleep at night without perspiring—that would help alleviate the prickly heat which was driving us all wild.

  The new American salvage pumps, a consignment of big ten-inch and six-inch pumps, would give us vastly improved pumping capacity on the Frauenfels, allowing us to cut the pumping time so low we should get the ship up and dried out before moisture could kill off all the magnetos, avoiding the battle we had had on the Liebenfels.

  And all the hand tools—torches, drills, diving telephones, that were in those new cases—should greatly help both the salvage crews and the Naval Base shops in working—at last we should have enough small tools to work with.

  So without trepidation, I looked forward to the lifting of the Frauenfels, though undoubtedly it would take considerably longer than the Intent had spent on her sister. In addition to two holes to patch, because of the greater depth of water and the resulting greater load coming on the main deck of the wreck when we started to pump out the submerged holds, Brown would have to have the divers shore up inside underneath the main deck of the Frauenfels before we started pumping out. Otherwise that deck, with the weight of thousands of tons of sea water on top of it, would collapse on us and ruin everything, once the water inside the holds fell away from the main deck and no longer supported it from below.

  All that I went over with Brown—the shoring, the patching, the hatch cofferdams, the sealing up of the sea chests, the closing of all interior valves. It was all clear, and the Intent could shove off for the south harbor to commence, but Brown seemed to have something on his mind distracting him from the job in hand. I asked him what was the matter; was he too worn out for another raising?

  “No, it’s not the Frauenfels; we’ll get her up, Captain. It’s that gang up on the hill! They’re enough to drive anybody crazy!”

  I supposed he meant the American contractor. While that contractor was causing me more mental anguish than anything I had to battle in Massawa, still why should Brown be concerned over those people? I looked at him, puzzled.

  “I went to see them while I was in Asmara for our rest, Captain, to go over with them some claims my crew has got for pay on the voyage round from Port Arthur, and did I get a going over! But the boys are entitled to that money, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer from anybody. Finally I finished up talking to just about the top mogul, and do those people up there think they’re God! You should have heard what their foreign manager said to me. I didn’t get the money due my men, but take it from me, Captain, I told them off! Read that!”

  Brown shoved a carbon copy of a letter into my hands. I glanced at it. It was dated in Massawa, July 13, three days before, addressed to the contractor’s foreign manager in Asmara.

  My DEAR SIR:

  I wish to thank you for the very enlightening interview that you so graciously gave me at your Asmara office on July 7, 1942. Until I was so informed by you I had not realized that I was just a “camp follower.”

  It was extremely kind of you, a busy man of affairs, to take the time to inform me in such a courteous and tactful manner exactly what I was, and make clear to me the small and insignificant part that the men in Massawa were playing in the extremely large scale operations under your jurisdiction.

  Until pointed out to me by you I had not realized that Captain Ellsberg, U.S.N.R., was “a small pebble on the beach” and the operations at Massawa “just a drop in the bucket.”

  If you put all the supervisors in your company in their places as deftly and efficiently as you did me, I am sure they would co-operate to the limit of their endurance for your company in the war effort.

  Sincerely yours,

  EDISON D. BROWN,

  Salvage Master

  c.c.CAPT. EDWARD ELLSBERG

  I shoved my carbon copy of his letter into my shirt pocket, trying not to grin.

  “You certainly told ’em off, Brown,” I had to admit. “Now I’m a naval officer, and I couldn’t write letters like that to anybody, but since you’re still a free and equal citizen of the United States, I suppose you can. However, don’t lose any sleep over that crowd. We’ll do our bit for the war effort in Massawa even if you are only a ‘camp follower’ and I’m only ‘a small pebble on the beach.’ Now if you have any more problems with that outfit, let me handle them while you tend to the Frauenfels. I’m used to being kicked around by their big shots in the high hills over the telephone (Massawa’s too hot for ’em to come down here much to bother me) and I see you’re not. Leave them to me, and you at least will have fewer headaches. You can shove off now, and good luck to you, Brown, and your men on the Frauenfels.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Brown reached for his bridge controls to start maneuvering his tug away from the pier while I hastily slid down from his superstructure onto the wharf, an exit which on that tiny craft required no more than two good jumps.

  I waved to the salvage men on the Intent’s fantail as their vessel fell away from the pier and her powerful propeller started to push her ahead on her way to the south harbor and the scuttled Frauenfels. Next day I should be with them there.

  Back in my office, I took up other problems again. I had managed to get turned over to the Naval Base the huge masonry barracks that shortly before Britain’s Indian troops had been occupying. Part of the Bengalis and the Sikhs had been hurriedly shipped east to fight the Japs; the rest I had persuaded Colonel Sundius-Smith, commanding the British forces about Massawa, to move out of Massawa to some ex-Italian wooden barracks in the hills halfway to Asmara.

  That massive building would make fine quarters for all the American (and South African) workmen in Massawa; it was the one place which (once all its shuttered windows were sealed off airtight with masonite sheets) could be air-conditioned.

  For now we had quite a number of air-conditioners. A few sets, the first to arrive, had already been installed in Building 35. There we had sealed up tightly every shuttered window and door, put a portable air-conditioning set in each room, and the results had been marvelous. In my room, for instance, the air-conditioner, running night and day, of course, with never a shut off, had managed to knock the inside temperature down to go° F., and the humidity down to 65 per cent. It was unbelievable what the effect was. Entering that room at night after a regular day under the Massawa sun, it felt as if I had suddenly entered a refrigerator, and for a while after entering I always had to slip on a coat to avoid a chill till I got used to it indoors.

  Then there was another gain. With all room openings tightly sealed off and the only air now coming in blowing first through the filter of the air-conditioner, I no longer had to sleep under a mosquito net enveloping my bed. That was wonderful. Between the absence of the mosquito net and that beautifully cool 90° F. air in my room with only 65 per cent humidity in it, I could now wear pajamas again at night without perspiring; I didn’t have to sleep naked any more.

  The effect of all this was heavenly. No longer bathed in sweat all night through, the prickly heat from the day’s exposure outside subsided a bit, leaving the sufferer to start from scratch, so to speak, each morning in accumulating a fresh crop of prickles in his prickly heat instead of having it build up as before without intermission, day or night. Every night I blessed the Westinghouse Company which had made my air-conditioner and wished them unending prosperity for what their machinery was doing for me in Massawa.

  Now to talk about heavenly comfort in a room with the thermometer at 90° F. and the humidity at 65 per cent (conditions which in any American city would be headlined in the papers as a heat wave, with the prostration victims listed daily) on
ly goes to show that everything is relative. In Massawa, my air-conditioned room was the nearest thing to heaven that existed.

  Of course, it goes without saying that there was a catch to all this bliss—the catch came when every morning between 5:00 and 6:00, I opened my door to step out and begin my day’s work. Some day, somewhere, somehow, there may arise another Shakespeare with words graphic enough to convey the shock resulting each morning when I emerged from my cool room to meet again that soul-shriveling blast that was Massawa in midsummer; I can’t do it.

  At least, in air-conditioned rooms, we could sleep at night now; that was something. Now the problem was to get my ex-Italian barracks building sealed up, air-conditioned, and our American workmen moved into it. How was that going?

  Captain Morrill came in to report to me on the subject; progress was not too fast. Overhauling the plumbing system and rewiring the building with electric circuits heavy enough to carry all the new air-conditioners, were the major difficulties. There were available in Massawa to hurry the job neither enough plumbers nor enough electricians; most of the Americans in those trades were still engaged at Ghinda in finishing up that magnificent housing project in the hills (against which I had futilely protested many times), which would be utterly worthless to us when finished, and which as an actual fact never was used by anybody in Massawa.

  I listened to Morrill’s report. With difficulty I avoided a hysterical outburst myself over the tragic waste of money, men, and material at Ghinda.

  “Well, Morrill, let’s hope they finish it soon, so it can be abandoned to the natives, the Eyties, or the goats up there, whoever wants it, and the workmen in Ghinda at least moved somewhere they’ll do some good. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Captain; there’s that man you hired this morning. Anywhere special you want him assigned?”

  “Oh, Zeiner, you mean? I’d forgotten about him. You got any suggestions?”

  “Yes, if you’ve got no objections. I’ve talked with him while you were out. Looks like a very bright youngster to me, and maybe he can fix something that’s been giving me and Woods a headache. You know all those cases of small tools that came in last week? We’ve got nobody to inventory them or keep track of their issue, and Lieutenant Woods tells me the stuff in the few cases he’s already opened has disappeared like a snowball would in this place, with no trace of where it’s gone. There’s a swell black market around here for everything these Eyties steal. Now suppose we give that Zeiner to Lieutenant Woods, give him a few Eritreans to help, and let him crack open all those cases, inventory what’s in ’em, and after that make him responsible for issue and return of all those tools. That boy can talk both Arabian and Italian; none of these Arab or Eytie mechanics will put anything over on him. I’ll bet you, Captain, he’ll save us his whole year’s wages in one day!”

  “O.K., Morrill; it sounds fine. You turn him over to Woods and let me know in a few days if it works out.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  NEXT MORNING ON ARRIVAL AT MY office, I received a telephone call from Captain Lucas at the Royal Naval Base. He had something of a top secret nature he had to talk with me about; he couldn’t, of course, mention it over the phone. Would I be so kind as to drop over at once to see him? I would.

  As I went over to Lucas’ office, I wondered what on earth was up now. Were the British going to haul me over the coals for Bill Cunningham and his riot in Asmara? Then I decided it couldn’t be that; nothing connected with that riot could possibly be considered top secret. Perhaps it might be my harsh words to Brigadier Longrigg’s major in the Zeiner case if he didn’t meet my wishes. That seemed more likely.

  But after I got a look at Lucas’ face, I decided it was for none of my crimes. Lucas was serious enough but not in the manner I’d seen him each time he’d had to call my attention to some dereliction on the part of my obstreperous Americans (which had been often).

  So it turned out. Posting his orderly to keep everyone out of earshot of his office, Captain Lucas informed me of what was up. The Duke of Gloucester, Lieutenant General in the British Army, brother to the King, and his official representative, had manifested an interest in what was going on in Massawa. The next morning, by car from Asmara, he would arrive at ten o’clock to inspect the U.S. Naval Repair Base and the salvage operations.

  Naturally Captain Lucas was perturbed, and I didn’t blame him. Here was a member of the Royal Family, third in the succession, and likely suddenly to awake any morning as King of England himself should one of the many bombs aimed at Buckingham Palace strike it, thrust into our hands to inspect a naval station manned to a high degree by enemy aliens and P.O.W.s. If anything unfortunate happened to the Duke of Gloucester while in Massawa, the responsibility would be on our heads. It was absolutely imperative to keep the Duke’s coming visit top secret to the last minute—till too late for any plots to be hatched. After the last minute, we should have to be prepared against any impromptu episodes.

  I nodded in agreement. Captain Lucas undertook to look out for the Duke everywhere on the Abd-El-Kader Peninsula except when he was actually within my Base and afloat; during those periods, it would have to be my task. No one knew of the matter at the Royal Naval Base except himself and his executive officer; I could inform my own exec, Captain Morrill. But in neither case, till about sixty minutes before the Duke’s arrival would either of us inform even our major assistants.

  There was one other thing. Colonel Sundius-Smith, commanding officer for the British Army, was also in on the matter—he would furnish several battalions of Sudanese and Indians to be reviewed by the Duke on his arrival on the grounds of my Base, though none of his men were to be informed in advance as to the why of the parade.

  I thanked Captain Lucas for his information, promised to let him know that night of my preparations, and started to depart. Then one other matter occurred to me, and I paused. I had to take the Duke around on the water to show him our salvaged craft and our wrecks; all I had for the job was the Lord Grey, a terrible scow to ask the Duke to ride in. Would Captain Lucas be so kind as to lend me for the occasion his own boat, the ex-Italian admiral’s barge which the British had promptly seized on the surrender? For this occasion she would have to fly an American flag; would Captain Lucas mind? Lucas agreed cordially to lend the boat and not to object to the flag.

  So I went back to my own Base to call Morrill into our own top secret conference. Hurriedly we arranged matters. An hour before the Duke’s arrival, Morrill would inform Lieutenant Woods and our shop superintendents of who was coming. In every shop immediately thereafter, every overhead crane was to be run to one end of the shop, the crane hook trolleyed all the way over to one side, the Eytie operator removed from the overhead crane cab, and the power cut off the crane. I was taking no chances on anyone accidentally dropping anything from above on the Duke’s head as he passed through; I had seen such accidents happen before.

  Ten minutes before the Duke’s arrival, each foreman was explicitly to warn all his workmen that visitors were shortly expected; the warning was to be in all appropriate languages so no one could possibly misunderstand. The men were to be told then also that just before the arrival in that shop of the visitors, a whistle would be blown. After that whistle all hands were strictly to tend to their machines; any man who made a move from his task before the visitors had departed from that shop was likely to be shot instantly and without discussion.

  Finally there was the question of who should stand by to do the shooting if necessary. As an American Naval Base, it would look well if only we had some American bluejackets in each shop as a guard, but our American Naval Base didn’t possess even one American yeoman, let alone a more seagoing bluejacket. Captain Lucas had plenty of British bluejackets, whom doubtless he would be very willing to lend us, but I would have died of mortification if the Duke of Gloucester should see that the United States had not even provided its Naval Base with at least a few of its own seamen.

  That was a tough one,
but we solved it. In the commercial harbor were now a number of American freighters discharging. They were all armed; they must have Navy Armed Guard detachments aboard. Morrill was to go over to the commercial port, and in my name borrow at least twelve American bluejackets and two Armed Guard naval officers, all to come armed with Colt .45s by 9:00 A.M. next day. Then Morrill would instruct them in their jobs; they would be divided into two squads, each under an officer. One squad would guard the shop being visited; the other, the next shop to be entered. As soon as the visitors had left a shop, the guard there was to leapfrog to the second shop beyond, and so on alternately. It ought to work, and if the Duke were not too observant, he would think the United States really had a well-manned Naval Base in Massawa.

  There was one other trouble for me. The uniform for the occasion for all naval officers, set by Captain Lucas as Senior Officer Present, was to be whites—white shorts, of course, white shirts, white shoes and socks, and white sun helmets. I didn’t have any white sun helmet, but that I could get around by wearing my white gold-visored naval cap; damned uncomfortable in place of a helmet, but at least suitable in appearance. What stymied me was that I had no white shorts—nothing but the khaki that had served me on wrecks and everywhere else. And in Massawa I could neither buy any nor have any made. It looked as if I were going to be a disgrace to the United States.

  In that dilemma, Captain Morrill, who as an Army officer would wear khaki along with all others, came to my rescue—remarkably enough he had a pair of white shorts, though they were no part of any Army uniform. Someone somewhere had loaned him a pair for something, he couldn’t remember what, and he had forgotten to return them. I was welcome to them permanently. Later that day I tried them on; they were quite large for my much-reduced Massawa figure, but by heavily reefing in, I could keep them up. I accepted them gladly, all set now to receive the Duke of Gloucester in borrowed shorts, borrowed sailors, a borrowed boat, and under what had once been a borrowed American flag. I may add that the Naval Base itself was also all borrowed from the Eyties, including most of my skilled workmen in it.