by Gary Moore
“We’re going to see what our pitchers have, and see how our catchers catch. Are you ready to play ball?”
Gene smiled. “I was born to play ball. It’s the last thing I think about before I fall asleep. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. So, yes,” he laughed, “I’m ready to play ball and have been dying to get a mitt on again.”
“Well, let’s grab a pitcher, and see how you catch.” Buck searched the group with his eyes until he found who he was looking for. “Hey, Wigant! Grab your glove and get over here.”
Bill Wigant nodded an acknowledgment and hustled over to Buck. Wigant was a short, stocky kid from Waterloo, Iowa. He was in high school when the war broke out and was being courted by the Dodgers. Like Gene, he was offered a spot on the Navy team and enlisted right away.
“Bill Wigant, this is Gene Moore.” Bill and Gene shook hands. “You all warmed up?” asked Buck.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Good. Let’s play ball.” Buck ordered Bill out to the makeshift mound. “Let’s see what you can do.” With that, he turned and walked away to begin matching other pitchers with the two remaining catchers. Gene squatted behind the plate and Wigant planted a hard fastball into his mitt. Over and over. He also had a curve that Gene really had to keep an eye on.
In between pitches Gene noticed Buck standing behind him and off to one side, watching the duo perform. He had been so focused on Wigant he failed to take note of the coach’s arrival. “Bill, hold it,” ordered Buck. “I’m going to switch catchers with you.”
Gene stood up, looked at Buck, and asked, “Am I doing something wrong?”
“Nope. Just switching catchers,” answered Buck, who motioned for another player to join them. “Gene, this is Greg Pacer. Greg is a catcher from here in Chicago.” Greg and Gene exchanged greetings and a handshake. Buck motioned for Gene to walk to where another player was standing. “Ray Laws, this is Gene Moore. Ray is from New Jersey.” Ray and Gene shook hands.
“Ray, Gene feels confident he can catch your forkball.”
Ray gave a half-laugh before answering, “I hope someone can. He sure had trouble,” tilting his head toward Greg, who was now catching for Wigant.
“If you can throw it, I can catch it,” Gene said with a smile.
“Think so, huh?” Ray asked in a skeptical voice.
“If I can’t catch it, I’ll stop it. I don’t let balls get past me. As long as I keep the ball in front of me and within reach, no one will advance on me.”
“You ever catch a forkball before?” Ray asked.
“No,” Gene responded. “I’ve never even seen one. But I know what it does.”
Ray looked over at Buck and shook his head. “Hell, I can tell my baby sister what it does, but it doesn’t mean she can catch it. Buck, isn’t there a real catcher in the entire Navy?”
Gene was taken aback by Ray’s attitude. “I can catch you Ray, just pitch me a few and let’s see,” Gene shot back.
“I’m through trying out catchers,” Ray said, turning his head and spitting to the side.
Gene had heard enough. He glanced at Buck and stepped closer to Ray, who turned back to look deeply into his dark eyes. “Are you as good at throwing that thing as you are at trying to make people feel incompetent?”
No one had ever talked to Ray Laws that way before, something that was obvious from the look that crossed his face. “Yeah, I am that good at throwing it.” Neither player blinked.
Gene held the pitcher’s steely gaze. “Then get your cocky-ass sixty feet, six inches away from me, and let’s see if you are half as good at baseball as you are at talking. I’m hoping the further you get away, the more I’ll like you.”
“Hey, Buck—I don’t need this crap,” Ray replied.
Buck was about to jump in when Gene stuck out his arm and cut him off. “This is between me and Ray.”
“Fair enough,” answered the coach.
Gene lowered his arm but had never taken his eyes off Ray’s face. “Sorry, pal, but you do need this crap. You can dish it out. Let’s see how good you are.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed as he tried to size up this new kid from Southern Illinois. Clearly he had underestimated his fortitude. The kid continued speaking before he could formulate a clever comeback. Buck lifted his hand to cover the grin spreading across his face.
“Here’s how I see it, Ray. If you want to pitch, you have to have someone catch. You tell me no one can catch you? Well, maybe you end up in a boat with Japs shooting at you if no one can catch you—have you ever thought of that? While you’re target practice for Tojo, I’ll be catching for someone else. I think it’s really that simple. I can catch your pitch, Ray. If you want to throw it, well, that’s your choice. If not, I’ll find a pitcher who can do something besides whine.”
Ray smiled, an ice cold sneer that Gene found slightly unnerving. “Alright, hot shot. Let’s see if you can catch what I can bring.”
“You guys going to talk or play ball?” Buck finally asked.
“I’m already warmed up, Buck. I’m ready if he is,” shot back Ray.
“Go to the mound, then, and let’s see this magic pitch of yours,” Gene laughed.
Ray swaggered his way to the mound, where he began rearranging some of the dirt with the toe of his right shoe. Buck winked at Gene, folded his arms, and waited for the fireworks to begin. Frank was right, he thought. This kid has a lot of heart.
Once he was settled in, Ray looked at Gene, wound up, and let it fly. The ball didn’t have a lot of spin and came in fast—really fast—right down the middle. As the ball crossed the plate, it dropped as if something had hit it. The ball hit the dirt, but Gene scooped it up without missing a beat. He held the baseball up and looked at it as if he had never seen one before. “Well, I’ve never seen a ball do that! Nice pitch.”
Ray caught the throw back to him and offered a grudging smile. “Nice catch, too. Let’s see if that was beginner’s luck.”
It wasn’t. Ray threw another dozen pitches, and Gene, true to his word, caught, scooped up, or blocked every one. By this time the two players were chattering back and forth like old friends who had been playing together since grammar school. Buck and several other players and coaches stood off to one side, watching the chemistry develop between Gene Moore and Ray Laws.
“I think I like what I see,” Buck said to another coach standing next to him. “Ray can make that ball dance, and Gene is handling it, no problem. I think this is going to be fun.”
Over the next few weeks, the team worked on physical training and practice games, while Buck assessed their talent and coached them on basic skills. In the evening, they received training in military protocol and procedures. After all, they were in the Navy.
The pitchers and catchers were separated from the rest of the team for a few days. It was apparent from the beginning that Gene was different. He was fundamentally sound and as good, if not better technically, than the other two catchers. But it was his understanding of the fundamentals of pitching and of pitchers as people that separated him from the rest of the pack.
Gene was a player’s player. He knew when to be funny, and he knew when to be serious. The pitchers gravitated to him. This team of up-and-coming raw talent was beginning to bond, and Gene was rapidly becoming their leader, both on and off the field.
The Navy team continued to progress. Rarely was any mention of war discussed. While the country mobilized its vast resources to fight a global conflict, producing equipment and supplies, training men to fight and women to work on the home front, Gene, Ray, and the rest of the team played baseball. They were lost in their love for the game and obsession to play well. Most of the time they had to remind themselves they were in the Navy—and their country was fighting a world war.
Chapter 9
North Africa
Gene’s life experiences were expanding faster than he ever dreamed possible. In the space of two years he had gone from small town catcher to the Brooklyn Dodgers organization
, and played ball with some of the best young prospects in the country. Now he was in the Navy in North Africa—a far cry from a one-hour hitchhiking trip home from St. Louis to Sesser. He knew nothing of Africa except there were lions and elephants there—or at least he thought so. It had been several weeks since he set foot on the continent, and he still had not seen a single lion or elephant. There was, however, an enormous amount of military activity, plenty of sand, hordes of flies, and the occasional camel.
The young Dodgers’ prospect landed in Africa in November 1942 as part of Operation Torch, a massive three-prong naval invasion designed to open a second front against Nazi Germany. By the summer of 1942, Germany seemed unstoppable. Most of Europe had been overrun, German submarines (U-boats) were terrorizing the high seas, and England had barely survived a massive air assault. In June of 1941, Adolf Hitler launched a massive invasion of the Soviet Union nicknamed Operation Barbarossa. The Germans drove within sight of Moscow, where the early onset of winter and a heroic defensive stand by the Red Army stopped the advance, saved the capital city, and kept Russia in the war.
Another powerful German-Italian army under Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (the “Desert Fox”) operated in North Africa. One of Germany’s finest field commanders, Rommel and his Afrika Corps drove British forces hundreds of miles east across the desert into Egypt. Rommel intended not only to defeat the enemy there, but to capture the precious oil fields that lay beyond. In an effort to dilute Nazi power and reverse the course of the war, the Allies decided to land in North Africa, defeat Rommel, and regain control of the Mediterranean Sea. General Dwight D. Eisenhower was appointed Allied commander of Operation Torch—one of the largest amphibious operations in world history.
More than 100,000 French (Vichy) troops were stationed in Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia. It was widely believed that these troops, which had cast their lot with Hitler’s Germany, would not put up much, if any, fight against the Allies. The Allied landings began on November 8 in Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers. To the surprise of many, the French troops in Oran offered more than token resistance, but control of the landing areas was quickly gained and the beachheads firmly established.
The United States landed 134,000 men on the beaches of North Africa, together with tons of equipment, trucks, tanks, and gasoline—as well as baseballs, gloves, caps, and bats.
The trip from the States to North Africa was anything but exciting. Gene had never seen the ocean before, but once he climbed aboard the transport ship it was all he saw for two weeks. Endless tracks of empty sea stretched from horizon to horizon, with nothing in between except other Allied ships cutting through the same blue-green swells. Like most of the men on board, it took Gene several days to find his “sea legs” and settle his stomach. The heaving sea and constant motion made it impossible to keep food or drink down for long. The hours spent hanging over the railing retching into the sea seemed to last forever. Once adapted to the endless ups and downs of a sea voyage, Gene and his teammates found walkways long enough to play catch, which broke the monotony and lifted their spirits. But there was no hitting and of course, no games.
Before arriving in North Africa, the convoy made a stop in the Azores, a Portuguese island chain 1,000 miles west of Africa, to drop off supplies and the baseball team. Gene and his teammates stayed there for about a month, practicing and preparing to play ball. For the rest of his life he remembered how good it felt to feel solid ground under his feet and stretch his legs as he ran the bases. The team was picked up by another convoy and landed in North Africa in Casablanca, Morocco, as part of the Western arm of the naval task force. The beachhead was already well established by the time Gene arrived. It was now time for he and his teammates to complete their mission: playing ball for the troops.
Gene Moore (back row, middle) with the United States Navy North African Exhibition Baseball Team in the Azores Islands of Portugal, 1942. The team practiced here before moving on to Africa. Twenty years after the war, a local recalled that he was digging around one of the quonset huts in the background when he discovered a cache of American beer someone had hidden during the war.
Gene discovered that sand does strange things to a baseball. There were no short hops in the infield. Once the ball hit the ground, it stopped. Dead. Playing in the sand changed the entire nature of the game. But Americans loved baseball enough that entire crews of soldiers were assigned the task of doing whatever was necessary to construct ball diamonds at area military encampments. There was a war raging, and the United States had mobilized like never before in its history. But live without baseball? Not a chance. Where there were Americans, there was baseball. War or not, the game lived on—even in North Africa.
The United States Navy’s Exhibition Baseball Team needed about three weeks before it was ready to play its first game. The fields were playable, the players were used to the sand, and they were back in shape after their debilitating sea journey. Buck assembled the team for a status report and addressed them.
“Okay, men,” he began. “The opposition—the US Army Exhibition Team—should arrive tonight.” The name of the “opposition” brought forth a stream of good-natured boos and hissing. Buck twisted a smile on his tanned face and raised his hands to calm the crowd. “Okay, okay. We really don’t know how many times we’ll be playing the same Army team. I don’t know much about these guys, but we’ll get to know them well, I’m sure.”
“Are they any good?” Ray Laws asked.
“I’m sure they are,” answered the coach. “They’re a team assembled just as we are. These are ballplayers who have tried out and made it into Major League organizations, or were placed by a professional club on the team. So, yes, I’m sure they’re good.”
“Where are we going to play, Buck? Always here or will we be moving around?” asked Gene.
Buck shook his head. “I don’t know. They want us close enough to the front to be able to bring troops out for a day of baseball, and return them the same day. But we have to be far enough away not to put the troops or ourselves in the line of fire. War is new to me too. The front, I hear, is pretty fluid and so shifting up and back. I guess our field will, too. We’ll travel with the portable backstop we built, but we must remain flexible and cooperative. Above all, remember we are the sideshow, gentlemen. We are not—I repeat, not–the main event. The war is why we’re here, not baseball.”
“If they are the Army team, and we are entertaining army troops … then does that mean we are always the visiting team?” Tim Milner asked.
“Good question. It would seem so, but no.” He laughed as he reached down and lifted a wooden sign. He turned it around so everyone could read what was painted on the other side: “Ebbets Field.” The players cheered when they read the words. “We will alternate everyday. The Army team is made up mostly of Yankee prospects, so they have a sign reading “Yankee Stadium.” Buck waited for the booing to subside. “Each day we will alternate by hanging our signs on the back stop. That will identify which team is home.”
Ron Callais, a 17-year-old center fielder from Houma, Louisiana, asked, “Ah we en ahne donger here, Buck?” Ron’s Cajun-Southern accent was so thick it was hard for most of the team to understand him when he spoke.
“I’m sorry, Ron … can you repeat the question?”
“Are we in any danger here?” Ron said slowly and more deliberately. It was still difficult to understand.
“Well, yeah, I guess so. There is a war on. I have no idea how great our risk is, but sure. We’re close to an enemy who is hell-bent on winning, commanded by one of the best the Krauts have,” Buck replied.
Buck was calling on another player when a siren sounded. It started low and grew progressively louder and higher in pitch. He looked out the door and saw everyone outside running. A young soldier ducked his head into the barracks and yelled, “Air Raid! Air Raid! Follow me!”
“I guess that answers your question!” Buck shouted to Ron as the men headed for the door.
The entire te
am ran through the door and followed the nameless soldier down a sandy path to a cave dug into the sand. Sandbags piled ten high surrounded the doorway and were stacked on top of the makeshift bunker. They were squeezing their way into the hole in the ground when the seriousness of what was happening began to set in.
The most visibly disturbed was Callais, who was sitting on Gene’s left. His hands were shaking almost as bad as his voice when he suddenly asked to no one in particular, “Are we gonna be okay?” Gene sensed the fear building, especially since they were all crammed underground waiting to see what would happen next. A distant memory flooded into his mind from a time when he was a small child. His father had herded the family into the cellar when it was reported that a tornado was spotted outside Sesser heading for the town. His father’s calm voice had kept the family distracted and thinking about something else, and the danger passed them by.
“Hey, everyone! I have a question,” announced Gene. “Nine batters came to bat in the first half of an inning, and not a man scored.” Gene paused for a few seconds, taking in the looks of confusion on his teammates’ faces. “How’s that possible?”
Silence greeted his question. Buck, who was seated across from Gene, squinted and leaned forward a few inches, as if he had not heard his star catcher correctly. “What in the hell are you talking about, Gene? We are being attacked by the Luftwaffe!”
“I know, Buck, but this question is specifically for Ron.” Gene repeated the question. “Think about it. Do you know the answer?”
“Well, lemme think about it.” Ron rubbed his forehead with nervous fingers as he tried to focus his mind on Gene’s riddle. “If the first three batters get on base. Then the next batter gets a base hit, but the man on third is thrown out at home … no … wait, that’s not it.”
Ray jumped in. “I got it. The bases are loaded, and the batter gets a hit, but the man scoring is thrown out at the plate. And that happens three times.”