by Gary Moore
Mueller threw off his mask and stood up. “Mein Gott! Medic, Medic! Mein Gott! Help! Gene needs a doctor!” he screamed, moving in and out of German and English.
Gene grimaced in pain and tried to sit up. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his ankle before falling back to the ground with a loud groan. “Damn!” he muttered through clenched teeth as a sudden sharp pain began pulsating through his body. “This didn’t happen! I can’t believe this happened!”
“Don’t move, Gene,” said the umpire as he knelt down beside the injured player.
Gene tried to lift himself up again, but Mueller dropped to his knees and eased him back down. “Don’t look, Gene. Everything will be alright. Just lay still.” Gene nodded and used a hand to wipe the tears running down his cheeks. The pain was becoming unbearable.
A stretcher crew arrived to part the crowd of ballplayers who had gathered around the all-star catcher. Frank Boudreau was with them. “Gene,” he said as others moved aside so the scout could speak with his favorite ballplayer. “Oh … Gene … Just lay still, son. We will get you to the doctor right away. It looks like it’s only a broken ankle. You’ll be fine, Gene.”
“Hi Frank,” Gene managed through the rolling waves of pain. He groaned aloud before willing himself silent. “I’m alright. I’m alright,” he repeated over and over. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself before uttering, “Tell the Dodgers … I’ll be ready to play.”
“I know Gene, I know. I’ll call Brooklyn right away. I’m sure they’ll want their doctors to see you.” The medics examined the ankle and carefully eased Gene onto the stretcher. Even that was sheer agony. Gene cried out again. “Just lay back, slugger,” Frank said, lightly gripping his shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. You’ll be fine.”
Gene arrived in the small camp hospital ten minutes later. The doctors gave him a shot of morphine, straightened his ankle out as best they could, and braced it. They wanted to operate right away, but a representative from the Brooklyn Dodgers had contacted the Navy. The team wanted Gene flown immediately to a surgical hospital in New York City. Who was going to treat him? Even with the morphine the pain was tough to bear, and his mind was so muddled now from the pain and the drugs he could not think clearly.
Through the fog Gene made out a familiar voice that grew louder with each word. He watched as Frank walked up the porch steps and smiled at him. “Do you have any lemonade, Gene? Are your parents home?”
“Sure, I have lemonade. You want a glass … Mr. Boudreau?”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Frank.
“It’s the morphine,” answered the doctor. “It’s not unusual. We gave him more.”
Frank knelt down a few inches from Gene’s ear. “Gene, it’s Frank. Can you hear me? Do you know who is speaking?”
Gene nodded and opened his eyes. “Hello … Mr…. Boudreau.”
“Gene, the Navy has agreed to move you to the Veteran Hospital in Brooklyn. The Dodgers’ doctors will not be allowed to treat you, however …” Frank shot a glance at the Navy doctor standing next to him, “because you are still the property of the United States Navy. They will, however, be able to consult with the Navy physicians and decide together how to get you catching and hitting as fast as possible. Do you understand?”
Gene nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“Gene,” the Navy doctor began, “I’m not going to pull any punches with you, son. Your ankle’s a mess. It nearly broke off from the rest of your leg. We straightened it some to hopefully prevent any nerve damage, but you need surgery. In my opinion, waiting to move you to Brooklyn is a mistake. You need attention sooner rather than later.” He shot a look at Frank. “Much sooner. For whatever reason—and I can guess what it is—the Brooklyn Dodgers want you in New York, even though I have assured them we can repair your ankle every bit as well as they can.”
“Thanks, doc,” Gene whispered as he closed his eyes. The morphine made him feel as if he was floating toward the ceiling, and the men gathered around him were holding him down.
“Gene, it’s Frank,” continued the scout. “We just want to know you’re getting the best care possible. Are you okay with this? Ultimately, it’s your leg, son. You need to make the final call.”
Gene smiled and forced his eyes open again. “Whatever you say, Frank. I … trust you. Just … I want to play … ball … again …”
“Okay, Gene, I understand. I’ll be back as soon as I have some news.” Frank touched Gene’s shoulder lightly and left.
The pain was now completely gone, and Gene was starting to slip off to sleep when his doctor returned. “Gene?”
“Yes, doc.”
“Two armed guards are here, and they have someone who wants to see you. I said no, but Frank Boudreau insisted it would help you. You have two minutes—if you can stay awake that long—and then you get some sleep.”
“Hello, Gene,” a formless voice whispered in a thick German accent. Gene forced his eyes open and smiled. Above him was Heinrich Mueller’s sweat-stained grimy face.
“Heinrich,” Gene responded weakly. “You … played … well.”
The German shook his head in genuine sadness. “Gene, I am sorry. Mein Gott, I did not mean to injure you.”
Gene shook his head slowly. He felt like he was on the top of the Ferris Wheel he rode each summer back home at the Franklin County Fair, as a wave of euphoria rushed through him. “My fault … not yours. My cleats…. Stupid.”
Mueller sought out the American’s hand and gripped it tightly. “We are proud of what you have taught us—all of us are. We are grateful to you and your team, Gene.”
The catcher nodded his understanding but did not reply.
The doctor tapped Mueller on the shoulder and motioned with his head. It was time to leave. The sailors stood by to escort him back to the camp. Heinrich looked down at Gene as he drifted off to sleep. “We will meet again, Gene Moore. I am sure of it.”
The next day, Gene was in a truck driving on some stretch of lonely highway. It took him nearly three weeks to reach the hospital in Brooklyn, New York. Why, exactly, he was never able to fully determine. By the time he arrived in the city, his toes had turned a darkish color and his ankle and foot were grossly swollen. He was alone on a train, balanced on crutches waiting for someone to help him get to the hospital. He waited in vain. No one was there to meet him.
Gene gritted his teeth as he climbed down from the train and made his way to the street, where he found a cab driver who offered to take the feverish sailor to the hospital. When Gene explained that he did not have enough money left to pay the fare, the driver waved him off and helped him into the back seat. He was operated on the following day.
Two weeks later, Heinrich Mueller and his German teammates were sent by train to Canada, and then shipped to England, which they reached in December 1945. Their excitement about returning home fell away when they learned they “had been sold to the British,” as Hans Goebeler later put it, and would be working in Scotland.
The crew members of U-505 toiled there for two years before being sent back to Germany in December 1947.
Chapter 24
The Broken Purple Heart
Life at the Brooklyn VA Hospital quickly became unbearable. Gene slept every night in a hospital ward with twenty other men. But Gene just wanted out. His surgery had gone better than expected, his leg was healing, and he was told the cast would come off any day. What made lying there insufferable, however, was his roommates. Their injuries were real war wounds. Most were the result of gunshots, but everything from shrapnel injuries to parachuting accidents were represented. He felt deeply guilty, being in this room with men who had real wounds, inflicted by an enemy who had been trying to kill them, not tag them out at home plate.
Gene could leave during the day on crutches, and the Dodgers were kind enough to provide him with free tickets to every home game. The bus trip from the VA Hospital through Brooklyn was quite an
experience. Each city block held more people than all of Franklin County. As he took in the hustle and bustle of the city, he wondered where he would live while playing in Brooklyn. It never ceased to amaze him how many people there were walking the streets. “What did all these people do for a living?” he once asked the bus driver. His only answer was a shrug.
A sign leading into the city proudly announced Brooklyn as “the 4th largest city in the USA!” Gene had no way of knowing whether that was true. Brooklyn reminded him of Chicago: big, busy, and crowded. Everything Sesser was not.
Gene fluffed the pillow behind his head and sighed. He could move about the city and see some games, but he desperately wanted to be released and restart his life in baseball.
“Motor Mechanics Mate Warren E. Moore?”
“Yup, that’s me,” Gene answered turning his head to find the voice. When he saw the officer standing by his bed he lifted a hand in salute and began to sit up.
The officer returned his salute. “Stay there, sailor. I’m Captain Robert Shirk. I am pleased and honored to be here today to present you with this symbol of your country’s immense gratitude for your service performed, and sacrifice made while defending your country.” The captain leaned forward and pinned something on Gene’s T-shirt.
“What’s that, sir?” Gene asked, pulling his chin down to see what was affixed to his chest.
“Moore, you have been awarded The Purple Heart.”
The entire ward erupted into laughter. Gene’s own heart sank. “Sir,” he answered sheepishly, “I’m afraid there’s some mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“I wasn’t wounded. I broke my ankle sliding into home plate in a baseball game.” From what he could tell from the look on Captain Shirk’s face, his explanation didn’t matter at all. “Maybe he doesn’t understand,” thought Gene. He tried again. “Sir, I wasn’t wounded.”
The captain looked around and when he spotted all the men listening to their conversation, he leaned toward Gene, who was now sitting up. “I know, Gene,” Shirk whispered. “I heard. You catch one hell of a game. Your government recognizes that you were injured while serving your country, and has paid you this high honor. Don’t question it.” He paused and then lowered his voice even more. “It comes with a small pension for the rest of your life, so shut up about how you were injured.”
The captain backed up, snapped to attention, and saluted Motor Mechanics Mate Warren Eugene Moore. Gene slowly returned the salute, irritated by the unwanted attention. Captain Shirk smiled and smartly stepped from the room.
A few of the men in the ward hooted and teased the Sesser native, who felt a mixture of embarrassment and pride. He played baseball during the war. He did what he loved to do while his brother and millions of other men had braved the fury of combat. On the other hand, he knew he had entertained thousands of troops, and that his play had raised morale and resolve of the men who shouldered the rifles, drove the tanks, flew the planes, and cared for the wounded and dying. Hundreds had told him so, personally. He was injured while playing for the United States Navy. Gene smiled as he unpinned the medal and held it up to study it. “Wait ‘til the guys at Bruno’s get a load of this!” he exclaimed. The entire ward erupted in laughter once again. He joined in. For the first time in weeks Gene felt really good.
He was just leaning back to read a magazine and maybe take a nap when another visitor arrived. “Moore? Gene Moore?” the young messenger asked, as he stood at the foot of Gene’s bed.
“Now what?” someone teased from another bed. “The Congressional Medal of Honor?”
Laughter once again shook the room.
“Yes, I’m Gene Moore.”
“Sign here,” instructed the stranger. “I have a registered letter for you.” Gene signed and the man stuck a letter in his hand. It was from the Brooklyn Dodgers. Gene smiled wide and said out loud, “This is turning out to be a great day!”
Gene opened the letter, and began reading:
Dear Mr. Moore:
We regret to inform you that, due to your injury, we find no alternative but to release you from your contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers Baseball Club effective immediately.
Regretfully,
Walter G. Blankenburg Director of Player Personnel
Stunned, he read the single sentence over and over, trying to make sense of it. Just minutes earlier he was awarded the Purple Heart in gratitude for his contribution to the war. Now, moments later, the Brooklyn Dodgers were expressing their gratitude for his service by telling him he was no longer wanted.
The other soldiers and sailors in the ward knew Gene had been signed by the Dodgers, and baseball had been the hot topic of conversation for weeks. Everyone could tell the news, whatever it was, was not good.
“Gene? Is everything okay?” asked one of the guys.
“What’s the letter say?” asked another.
“The Dodgers … they cut me from the team because of my ankle.” A flood of boos and cries flooded the room.
Gene shook his head as he fought back the tears welling up in his eyes. He slowly folded the paper, slipped it back into the envelope, and set it on the small table next to his bed. There had never been anything in his life but baseball. He loved it, lived it, and breathed it. And now this. He fell back onto his bed as the room fell into a stunned silence.
A young nurse, her heels clattering on the tile floor, walked into the ward and made a beeline toward Gene’s bunk. “Congratulations! I hear you got something special today!” she said, snapping gum as she spoke.
Gene closed his eyes, scooted down in the bed, and rolled away from her, pretending to go to sleep.
Chapter 25
Branch Rickey
Frank Boudreau rarely visited Brooklyn. It was even rarer for him to be called into Mr. Rickey’s office. He had met Branch Rickey several times, but as a scout, Frank was far below the radar of the legendary general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Branch Rickey was known in baseball circles as the “Mahatma,” partly because of his overpowering presence and partly because he had been around for so long. Rickey had managed the Cardinals and served as the general manager for that organization before moving to the Dodgers.
It was Rickey who invented the “farm system,” which allowed for young players like Gene Moore to be signed by Major League teams and then “farmed out” to minor league ball clubs owned by the Major League teams. There, young players got a chance to play steady ball at a high level and develop their skills with the chance of making it to the Major Leagues.
The general manager’s office was unlike anything Frank had ever seen. Walls of dark cherry wood, trimmed in a colonial dentil crown molding and wainscoting, gave the room a rich warm feeling. When he stepped onto the carpet, Frank felt as though he was walking on expensive bedding, sinking an inch or two in with each step. Branch Rickey has a history in baseball worthy of this office, Frank thought.
“Frank, thank you for coming to see me,” smiled Rickey, stepping out from behind his desk. He was in his mid-sixties, but he still had a thick dark mane of hair brushed up and over. Horn-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a college professor, as did the bow tie he almost always wore.
“The privilege is mine, Mr. Rickey,” Frank replied. “I was surprised, and of course honored, to get your call.”
“Frank, you have been a very important member of the Dodgers organization through the years. You are a trusted employee and have proven in the past to have a sharp eye for young talent.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rickey, I’m grateful, and …”
The general manager cut him off. “No, wait, Frank. Let me finish.” He motioned to a chair and took his own again before continuing. “This is a hard job. I feel as though I hold careers and futures in my hands and, in fact, I do. My future, the Dodgers’ future, is often in the hands of our scouts. Unfortunately, like Major League ballplayers, scouts seem to have a career that at some point goes south. Frank, as grateful as we are
to you for your past performance, I unfortunately today have the job of letting you go.”
Frank’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t understand, Mr. Rickey. Have I done something wrong?”
“Frank, please don’t make this harder than it is,” answered the general manager, his face cold and expressionless. “Just look at your signings over the last few years. Frankly, they have not performed as we had hoped.”
“Mr. Rickey, there was a war on and the pickings were very slim. I’ve had little to work with, and there was literally no one to scout except
15 year olds who could barely swing a bat and old men who could barely run the bases without getting winded.” Frank paused, but Rickey remained silent, his expression unchanged.
Frank cleared his voice and continued. “Mr. Rickey, now that the boys are coming back from the war, I can get you the most talented ballplayers around! Remember Gene Moore, the young catcher from Sesser, Illinois? He’s going to be the best in the majors—the best the Dodgers have ever had suit up!”
Rickey frowned and shook his head. “That didn’t work out either, Frank. Unfortunately, Moore’s leg didn’t heal as well as we had hoped. It was a bad break Frank—bad. One of the worst our doctors had ever seen.”
“What are you saying?” Frank asked, even though he already knew what the general manager was telling him.
“We released Gene from his contract.”
Frank leaped to his feet. “You’re not serious?” his voicing raised in surprise and frustration. When Rickey remained silent he shook his head and began pacing. “Mr. Rickey—you can’t be serious! That kid is better with one leg than most of your big leaguers are with two! He can out-slug your best hitters and has a rifle for an arm. If you release that kid, it will be a decision you will regret—of that I am confident.” He sighed. “Thanks for the opportunity you gave me with this organization, Mr. Rickey. It’s the best, and I hate to leave it—especially this way.”