by Gary Moore
“Wait a minute, mom!” Ward interrupted. “Where have you been all day? We’ve been attacked! Hundreds, maybe thousands of Americans were murdered today! I don’t give a damn about all this baseball crap!” Ward stepped away from his mom and started to walk out.
“Russell Ward Moore! Don’t you ever talk to your mother that way!” John thundered. It was one of few times they had heard him yell. The news of Pearl Harbor had gotten to John, too.
Ward stopped in mid-stride and turned around to face his father, a look of angry frustration plainly written across his face. “I’m sick and tired of hearing about Gene and baseball. That’s all everyone in this stinking town cares about. There’s a war going on and what are we talking about? Gene the baseball player! I walk down Main Street and people say, ‘Hey, isn’t that Gene’s brother?’ It’s as if I don’t even have a name anymore! Now, my own mother’s telling me he’s a ballplayer. Jamie Reid, today at the Opera House, telling us that Gene shouldn’t join up. Well, what about me? I guess it’s okay if I go risk my life for our country, but not Gene? He’s too valuable? Not Gene, your little baby ballplayer?”
Ward was crossing a line and everyone knew it. Gene reached out in an effort to calm Ward down, but the move prompted the older brother to take a swing that hit Gene squarely on his nose, knocking him to the floor.
“Guess you weren’t fast enough to duck that!” spat Ward as he stood over his sibling.
John jumped between the two boys, pushing Ward backward and away from the prostrate Gene. Allie knelt down beside her son.
“Enough Russell Ward Moore! Take a walk and simmer down,” John demanded, grabbing Ward by both shoulders and forcing him toward the front door. Clenching and unclenching his sore hand, Ward stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him for good measure.
“Gene, are you alright?” Allie asked her son as he got up from the floor. She was crying again.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” A tiny trickle of blood dripped from his nose, but Gene felt more embarrassment than pain.
“Gene, come help me get a bucket of coal,” commanded John. “The stove’s getting low and it’s going to be cold tonight.” The two Moores walked to the barn together.
“Don’t be angry at your brother, Gene. This war has him all worked up. It has us all worked up, I guess. He’s not mad at you.”
“I know, Pop. I’m not sore at him, either. But I didn’t know my playing baseball bothered him so much.”
“He’ll be fine. You’re brothers. No argument will ever change that. He’s much more proud of you than he lets on.”
Gene remained silent, rubbing his nose before checking to see if any teeth were loose.
“What are you going to do, Gene?”
“What should I do?”
“Ward’s over eighteen. If he wants to join the Army, he can do as he pleases. I wouldn’t stop him even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m proud of your brother. You’re only sixteen, though. You can’t join until March, but even then only if I sign for you.”
Gene nodded his understanding but remained silent, knowing his father was not yet done speaking.
“You don’t have to make any decisions tonight, but let me tell you something. I know it doesn’t seem like we have much. This little farm doesn’t produce enough to take care of all our needs. I do odd jobs. We get by.” He shrugged. “Lots of people have it a lot worse than we do. We aren’t starving and things … well, they’ll get better. Even though we struggle, we’re free. This country has been good to us, and we have to do what we can to protect what’s ours. I did. I served in Europe before you were born.” That news surprised Gene, who suddenly looked upon his father in a different light.
“I’ve seen things I’ve never been able to talk about,” the elder Moore continued. “But we did what we had to do. Because of that war, we’re still free.” He paused briefly, narrowing his eyes as Gene imagined him reliving some of the horrors of war.
“The thought of my sons going off to war, well, it makes me plain sick. I thought I did it so you wouldn’t have to. They told us that the last war would end all wars.” John was growing more angry as he spoke, his voice getting louder with each word. He caught himself, as he always did, took a breath, and began again. “I guess what I’m saying …”
“I know what you’re saying, Pop,” interrupted Gene. “You can count on me. Ward can count on me. I’ll do my part. I’ve never said otherwise. Jamie, mom, everyone’s trying to speak for me. It’s everyone else who keeps talking like I should play ball instead of defending my country. If it’s not over by March 19, I intend to sign up. I’ll do my part.”
John nodded in reply and began filling his bucket with coal.
President Roosevelt addressed a joint session of Congress the next day. The entire nation listened.
“Yesterday, December 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
For most Americans it was the first time they ever heard the word infamy, but they didn’t need a dictionary to understand its meaning. America had been attacked, and the Japanese had awakened a sleeping giant.
True to his word, Russell Ward Moore enlisted in the United States Army the morning of December 8, 1941. He shipped out for basic training by rail from Carbondale, Illinois, on the morning of December
12. Ward kissed Jamie goodbye, but didn’t say much to Gene before he left. His abrupt departure hurt Gene even though he was used to not getting much attention from his older brother. Gene loved Ward, and was proud of his brother’s patriotic stance. As he watched Ward’s train pull away from the station, Gene confirmed again in his own mind that he would join him as soon as he turned 17.
World War II touched everyone and every institution, including baseball. Gene received a letter from Frank Boudreau and the Dodgers on the afternoon of December 21. The day Gene turned 18, explained the letter, he’d be drafted into the military. In an effort to continue his baseball career, the Dodgers made arrangements for Gene to join the Navy and play ball with a Navy exhibition team. Gene would have to go into the service one year early, at age 17. The news was not overly disappointing. The immediate future of professional baseball was in doubt, anyway.
Frank’s letter instructed him to take the accompanying documents to the Navy recruiter and they would make all the arrangements. Gene did as instructed and shipped off to the Great Lakes Naval Air Station near Chicago, one day after he turned 17.
Chapter 7
In the Navy
From the window of the northbound Illinois Central train, Chicago looked like something out of a motion picture. To Gene, the city appeared big, bustling, and most of all, intimidating.
From the time he left Carbondale, Gene’s train carried him on a tour of one small town after another—Effingham, Rantoul, Ashkum, Bradley, Manteno, and Monee. Chicago arose from the landscape like some miraculous growth from the flat earth. As the train drew closer, Chicago appeared to Gene like The Emerald City from “The Wizard of Oz,” shining gloriously on the horizon. Gene had spent time in St. Louis playing with the Granary team. The city by the Mississippi River was bigger than any he had ever imagined could be. Chicago dwarfed St. Louis in every way.
Gene and the other new recruits and passengers disembarked at Union Station. The catcher from Sesser marveled at the lively atmosphere and stunning architecture. Union Station looked like it had been lifted from a history book. The beautiful marble interior, complete with Greek statues looking down from Mt. Olympus, was unlike anything he had ever seen.
Tens of hundreds of people were there, each one going about his or her business. Some were dressed in business suits, though most were in uniform. Entire families were gathered together to send a loved one off to war. Everyone was in a hurry. The looks, the smells, and the sounds of the big city train station were simultaneously exciting and threatening.
Gene Moore’s basic training photogr
aph, taken at the Great Lakes Naval Air Station, early 1942.
Gene stepped out onto Madison Street, unable to reconcile the contrast in sights and sounds between Sesser and Chicago. In Sesser, sounds flowed through the trees, fields, and rolling hills. In Chicago, the noise bounced back and forth from building to building. The sounds echoing in front of Union Station reminded Gene of being in a gymnasium in rural Illinois. He was outside, and yet he felt closed in.
The recruits milled about in front of the station for a few minutes before boarding a bus that would carry them to Navy Pier. The ride took less than fifteen minutes. The half-mile long pier stretched from Chicago’s lakeshore into Lake Michigan. Gene walked out onto the pier and marveled at the size of the second largest of the five Great Lakes. “This is a lake?” Gene uttered to no one in particular. As far as the eye could see was water. Lakes were small, and you could see across to the other side. This one looked too much like what he imagined an ocean would be. Besides the old Keller Mine Pond, the Mississippi River was the largest body of water he had ever seen.
Gene was processed into the Navy with several hundred other recruits. He was issued a seabag, two sets of uniforms, and a blanket. His first meal in the Navy followed, a hearty helping of chipped beef in milk and flour gravy, served on toast. As he quickly learned, the meal was referred to by Navy vets as SOS.
“SOS?” he repeated to a guy a couple years older sitting next to him. “What does that mean?”
“It means ‘shit on a shingle.’ You never heard that before?”
Gene laughed and shook his head. “Nope. Never heard that one.” That was one menu item he wasn’t going to mention back home, either, because he knew if his mom heard him say it, she would wash his mouth out with Ivory soap—even if he was a grown man discharged from the Navy with a medal. The others around him complained about the food, but Gene thought it was rather good. If nothing else, it was hot and filling.
After dinner, Gene sat on his cot in a cavernous room with hundreds of other young men. He was surrounded by a sea of strangers. It was the first time he began to feel homesick. Playing ball in St. Louis felt nothing like this because he knew he was only a little more than an hour away from Sesser. If he didn’t like it, he could quit and hitchhike home. Now he was in Chicago, and had been told in no uncertain terms when he was sworn in that quitting the Navy would be desertion, and deserters were shot.
Bored and homesick, Gene stretched out on his cot and decided to get some sleep. Five short minutes later, just as he was beginning to drift off, he heard a loud voice shouting his name.
“Sailor Warren Eugene Moore! Identify yourself!”
Gene leaped to his feet. “Here!”
A tall officer in dress uniform was moving in his direction. “You Moore?” he inquired.
“Yes. I’m Moore. They call me Gene—.”
“You mean ‘yes sir,’ don’t you, sailor? You’re addressing an ensign in the United States Navy!” The officer glared at the new recruit, his face just six inches from Gene’s nose.
Gene swallowed and held his temper. “Yes, I’m sorry,” he stammered, not knowing the exact protocol for addressing an ensign. “Sir, I mean, yes sir.”
The ensign glared at him for a few more seconds before bursting into laughter and taking a step backward. “Stop it, I’m just kidding,” he chuckled, reaching out to shake Gene’s hand. “I’m Buck Nelson, your new baseball coach, but in front of the real sailors, you have to call me ‘sir.’ The rest of the time, call me coach or just plain Buck.”
Gene let out a long sigh and shook his new coach’s hand. “Hi Buck, it’s good to—.”
“You will address me as sir!” Buck shot back, adding under his breath, “when others are around.”
Gene offered a vigorous nod of understanding. “Sir … yes sir!”
“That’s better.” Buck looked around and moved closer to Gene, whispering, “You know, I’m not really sure about that. To tell you the truth, today is my first day in the Navy, too, but I think it’s ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ but don’t quote me, though.” Buck cracked a grin and backed up a second time. “Let’s take a walk, and talk a bit.”
Buck Nelson was nothing like Gene. He was twenty-nine years old and a graduate of Columbia, where he attended school on a baseball scholarship. Standing tall in his perfectly pressed dress blue Navy uniform, there was something quite proper about Buck. He looked like he just stepped out of a Navy recruiting poster—an All-American boy. He had short blond hair, penetrating green eyes, and the whitest and straightest teeth Gene had ever seen. He pitched well in college and signed with the Dodgers after graduation. He threw hard, too hard, as it turned out. Buck blew out his arm during his first year in the minors. He never pitched again.
Buck’s education and knowledge of the game motivated the Dodgers to keep him on as a pitching coach. He earned quite a reputation in the minors developing good young pitchers. When war broke out and it was apparent baseball was in trouble, the Dodgers put Buck in the Navy. His Columbia degree made him eligible to become an officer, which in turned allowed him to coach the Dodgers’ new kids. Buck and Gene stepped out of the building and onto the pier.
“Sure is a lotta water,” Gene said, staring east across the lake.
“Yes, it is,” Buck answered. “A testament to the power of nature. Did you know this lake was carved by a glacier?” Buck paused, but Gene didn’t respond. “So Gene, I am told you are quite the catcher.”
The Sesser boy shrugged. “I love to catch, and I love the game. It’s my life.” Buck laughed. “What’s so funny?” asked Gene.
“That’s exactly what Frank Boudreau said you would say.”
“You know Frank?” Gene asked, excited at the mention of Frank’s name. It was another link to his home on Mulberry Street.
“Everyone knows Frank in the Dodgers organization. He signed me from Columbia University, and has a reputation for being the very best at spotting talent. I shouldn’t tell you this,” continued the ensign, “but Frank says you are the best young catcher he has ever seen. But, you need to know something. The guys you will be playing with over the next few months are also the best from wherever they come from. You’ll have to play hard to compete, Gene. Harder than you ever imagined. If you think playing with the Sesser Egyptians was competition, you haven’t seen anything yet. Are you up to the challenge?”
Gene stuck out his chin. “I’ll do my best. I think I can hold my own.”
Buck looked him over and nodded. “Frank seems to think so, too. Don’t be too modest, and don’t let Frank down. He hasn’t stopped talking about you, so give it your best. There will be two other catchers you will meet in a few days.” He stopped and watched Gene’s face. The boy from Sesser didn’t seem to get it. “No one is guaranteed a spot on the team, Gene,” Buck added. “You will have to earn it.”
“This team will have three catchers?”
Buck held his gaze. “No, Gene. It will have just two.”
Gene frowned. “What happens to the third guy?”
“He’ll be cut from the team, and will serve at the pleasure of Uncle Sam in the United States Navy.”
Buck watched Gene nod slowly as the news sunk in. He reached out and grabbed the catcher’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Remember, in front of the regular Navy guys, watch the Buck stuff. Call me sir. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Gene responded with a big smile.
Buck laughed, gave Gene a little push, and said, “Go to bed. You’re going to need your rest.” He turned and began walking down the pier, but stopped after a few steps. “Hey, Gene? Have you ever caught a forkball?”
“No, but I know how the ball acts. It comes in hard and fast, then drops like a rock over the plate. Do we have someone who can throw it?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah. Ray Laws. He says when he’s hot, catchers have as much trouble with his pitching as the batters do. Says he has never known a catcher who could catch him.”
“That sounds like a challen
ge,” Gene responded with a smirk. “He’s never met me!”
“You’ll get your chance. We’ll see if you can catch him in a few days. The other catchers say they can do it, too. Now, go get some sleep.” Buck turned and began walking away again. This time he did not stop.
Lost in his thoughts, Gene looked over the vast lake. For the first time in his life he was faced with the prospect of not being the best. Everywhere, even in St. Louis, Gene had been the best overall player on the field, and always a starter. Now the odds were one in three he would not make the team. It was a strange and unsettling feeling.
“I can catch this Laws guy,” Gene mumbled to himself. “I can catch anyone.” He took one last look across the water. “A glacier?” he thought. “What’s a glacier?”
The next morning, Gene and the other recruits were moved to Great Lakes Naval Air Station, just outside of Chicago. They were processed there and reported for swim testing on the first day of basic training.
On the second day of basic, Gene was separated from the rest, taken to a barracks apart from the others, and met his teammates for the first time—his shipmates of the United States Navy Touring Baseball Team.
Chapter 8
Team Navy!
Gene walked out of the barracks and pulled his collar around his neck. It was cold in Chicago. The Great Lakes Naval Air Station was bigger than the entire town of Sesser. There were more people within a mile or two of where he stood than there were in all of Franklin County.
“Moore! Gene Moore! Over here!” Gene saw Buck waving him over from across the road.
“Hey, Buck. What are we doing today?” Gene asked.