Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  “I am?”

  “You are. And then you’re taking me out for a nice dinner, and we’re coming back here, and you’re making love to me again, like a nice respectable married lady.”

  He kissed her, a sweet small thing that grew into something passionate, but by the end she was crying and had wrapped herself in his arms, her face in his shoulder.

  He said, “Baby, nothing means more to me than you. But if guys like me don’t stand up and do something about this war, then the world’ll go straight to hell, and where will we be? Where will our . . . family be?”

  She was sniffling and snuffling. “Shut-up and drop your drawers, sailor. That’s an order. . . .”

  Soon his pants were down, her dress was up, and he was inside her and her legs were wrapped around him and she was crying and he was crying and right before they both climaxed she said, her eyes big, her cheeks scarlet, “You . . . you . . . better . . . goddamn . . . come . . . home . . . to . . . me . . . Pete Maxwell . . .”

  “I will,” he gulped, and he came so hard, he thought he might die of it.

  They went out for that nice meal—at Hob Nob Hill restaurant, a bit of a splurge—and spoke not at all of the war, just talked about home and old times, and generally behaved like sweethearts. They returned to the Murphy bed and the lovemaking was slow and romantic.

  Wednesday and Thursday evening were repeats, with different restaurants substituted (she allowed him Loretto’s on the last night) and, though it was essentially unspoken, their mission was for Kay to conceive a child. That this child might not have a father, if the war took Pete, was not a topic of discussion.

  On these last two days, they spent every moment together. Kay was the dream companion, no moping, no crying, all upbeat, ever hopeful. They made plans for what they’d do after he got back. Pete liked the Navy well enough, but it wasn’t the life for him, and frankly neither was playing his cornet in smoky joints, however much fun that was.

  He loved music nearly as much as he loved Kay, but a life on the road was not in the cards, not when you were a married man getting ready to start a family. Vocal music, on the other hand, like leading the choir, that was a path that appealed—music teacher, church choir on the side, meant a stable life and a modest but acceptable income.

  They had also decided that she would stay in the apartment only until the end of the month. Her Western Union manager here had helped her swing a job at the office back in Des Moines. She would live with her aunt again, and take the streetcar to work.

  “While you’re away,” Kay said, “I’ll be building our nest egg. Then when you’re home, home for good, we’ll start looking for a house.”

  He had known better than to argue that with her, ambitious as that sounded. And she was right, a one-room apartment was not enough for a family. A house. Yes. He’d do his part for this war and come home to that picket fence everybody talked about.

  Friday morning dawned cold and cloudy, but Kay insisted on walking him to the base, which she did, arm in arm, his sea bag thrown over the opposite shoulder. At the gate, in the Sailor Made again, she kissed him hard and hugged him fiercely.

  “Don’t forget your promise,” she said. “You come back to me.”

  “I have every intention of doing just that, baby.”

  “I don’t mind you doing your bit, but don’t you go out of your way getting all brave and heroic. You keep your head down, Ensign Maxwell.”

  He kissed her lightly, then held her hard against him.

  “You are hugging the biggest coward in the Pacific Theater, lady. I promise.”

  She drew away. “Don’t start lying to me now, mister. I know you better than that. You always try for first chair.”

  “Well . . .”

  “All I ask is, no risks. Nothing silly. Just be safe.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  They shared one last kiss, sweet and soft and yearning, then he was through the gate. He looked back twice, but the second time, she’d turned and started away, walking with a determined gait that indicated she was off to fight the home-front war.

  The bus was scheduled to leave at seven and he didn’t want to miss it. When he got to the administration office, the other Fantailers were already there, clutching large manila envelopes with their orders. Rosetti and Connor lurked behind the blond frat boy Driscoll, their eyes darting to his neck, then at Pete.

  He finally took the hint and glanced at Driscoll’s collar. The silver lieutenant j.g.’s bars had been replaced by the double silver bars of a full lieutenant.

  “Jesus Christ, Dick,” Pete said. “You got a promotion! Haven’t they heard about what a prick you are?”

  Driscoll grinned. “Maxie, Maxie . . . such language in front of a superior officer.”

  Pete stuck out his hand. “Congratulations, pal.”

  Smiling, they shook firmly.

  “I appreciate that, Maxie,” Driscoll said. “As you might imagine, these other two scoundrels did not react as generously as a well-bred farm boy like yourself.”

  “Think about it, Pete,” Rosetti blurted, only half-kidding. “That promotion makes Dick the damned XO! There’s no end to the shit he’ll put us through now.”

  “Yes,” Connor said, “have Kay send you some knee pads, toot sweet—there will be regular ass-kissing on the hour.”

  “I was thinking more,” Driscoll said, “of springing such sessions like surprise inspections.”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “You missed him already ordering us to alternate mornings, Pete, bringing him breakfast.”

  “I said no such thing,” Driscoll uttered with a mock-wounded grin. “Of course, we’ll include Maxie, meaning it’s only every third day. . . .”

  The XO or executive officer was second in command to the captain and would take charge if anything happened to said captain.

  “If you’re the exec, Dick,” Pete said, “who’s the skipper?”

  “Lieutenant Commander John Jacob Egan.”

  “Never heard of him. Any of you guys . . .?”

  Rosetti and Connor shook their heads.

  “Captain Henderson didn’t know much about him,” Driscoll was saying, referring to the base commander who’d given them their orders. “Just that Egan’s Old Navy. Went into the Merchant Marine in the thirties, got called back when the war started.”

  “Just what a bunch of fakes like us need,” Connor said with a smirk. “A real Navy man.”

  Driscoll said, “We’ll meet him at Treasure Island. We’ll find out then if he’s Captain Bligh or Commander Hornblower.”

  “You’re confused already,” Connor said. “Pete’s the horn-blower.”

  Pete held up his hands, saying, “All right, all right, you clowns. Which one of you has my orders?”

  They were all stupid smiles now.

  Pete pressed: “My orders?”

  Driscoll held out his palms. “Who knows? The old man wouldn’t give them to us. He said to send you in as soon as you got here. Said he wanted to give it to you—personally.”

  Pete blinked. “Why, what did I do wrong?”

  Connor shrugged. “Maybe the cookies overheard you complaining about the chow. I heard you call that stuff shit-ona-shingle. You can get court-martialed for less in this man’s Navy.”

  Something was up, but Pete had no clue what. He had just the length of the hallway to think about it as he strode with forced confidence toward the door with the pebbled-glass window that said CAPTAIN T. HENDERSON, BASE COMMANDER in black stencil letters.

  The other three Fantailers trailed in his wake. He could feel their eyes on him, rubberneckers at a car crash. He dropped his sea bag on the floor and knocked firmly (but not too firmly) on the wood part of the mostly glass door.

  From the other side a steady baritone voice said, “Come in.”

  Pete entered, shut himself in.

  The office was sparsely furnished in the military fashion, metal desk in the center, two visitor chairs, coat rack behind the door, wa
ter cooler in one corner. The far wall was mostly divided windows with Venetian blinds slanting wide, today letting in not sunshine but overcast gray.

  Behind the desk, ramrod straight, rail-thin, sat a man of perhaps fifty, his grooming as immaculate as his uniform. Captain Thomas Henderson had salt-and-pepper hair, a high forehead, a pointed chin and dark wide-set eyes; he was wearing wire-rim glasses, probably only for reading, which he was doing as Pete entered.

  Henderson had a reputation as tough and conservative, but fair.

  “Ensign Maxwell reporting,” Pete said, standing at attention and saluting.

  Henderson’s return salute was lackadaisical. “At ease, Mr. Maxwell. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Pete stood quietly while the captain finished reading the page in front of him.

  Finally Henderson looked up and locked eyes with his visitor. “Your fitness reports are exemplary, Maxwell.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ve been a leader, not just with the choir, but on the base as a whole.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I suppose they told you.”

  “They, sir?”

  “Your cohorts in the corridor. The Fantail Four minus one? I thought you boys were very entertaining, by the way, that Ink Spots routine you did at the Christmas party.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So then they didn’t? Tell you.”

  “Tell me what, sir?”

  Henderson allowed himself a small half-smile.

  “It’s my honor,” he said, rising, “to be the first to shake the hand of Lieutenant Junior Grade Peter Maxwell.”

  As they shook hands, the shell-shocked Pete managed, “A promotion, sir?”

  “You’ve earned it, Maxwell.” The captain sat back down. “You’ve earned your place on that ship, too. Stateside can be thankless duty. Let me say that I’m happy for all four of you men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “This makes you second officer on the Liberty Hill Victory.”

  Since the captain was considered an absolute commander by the Navy, the first officer—Driscoll in this case—was second in command; and that put Pete in third position. “I will do my best, sir.”

  “I know you will.” The captain’s smile seemed almost human. “Now, get your tail moving or you’ll miss your bus.”

  Pete turned to leave, but Henderson said, “One moment, Maxwell.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t forget your silver bars—and your orders.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Pete said, tucking under his arm the envelope the captain handed him, and looking down somewhat dazed at the two shiny silver bars in the captain’s outstretched palm, one for each side of his collar.

  “Be proud of those,” Henderson said. “I have a feeling this is just the beginning for you, Lieutenant.”

  Then Henderson shooed Pete out where his buddies were waiting in the hallway. The building wasn’t very busy at this hour, but they still managed to make a few heads crane as they whooped and hollered and clapped the new lieutenant (j.g.) on the back as they headed outside.

  By the time the bus pulled out, Pete realized with a blush of shame that he hadn’t thought to take time to telephone Kay and tell her the good news. He’d correct that the first chance he got.

  The drive up the coast was tortuous, and they felt every curve and bump in the cramped seats of the bus, the vehicle crammed with sailors headed for Treasure Island. They sat two to a seat, Pete with Rosetti, Driscoll with Connor just ahead. Pete couldn’t help but go from face to face all around him, wondering if any of these guys would be part of their crew.

  The bus stopped once for gas and lunch outside a little town called Cambria. Pete got change for a dollar and made the long-distance call to Kay, at work.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she said.

  He was in a booth outside the roadside diner. “I’m still in California but I already feel a world away.”

  “No. Don’t. I’m always right with you. If you need to talk to me, even if you’re on some stupid island in the middle of nowhere . . . you talk to me. I’ll be there to listen.”

  “. . . I love you, baby.”

  “I love you. And I’m with you, Lieutenant Maxwell, every step of the way.”

  Soon all of the sailors were loaded back aboard the bus, which took off again. A thick cloud of smoke hung in the coach and Pete joined in, firing up a Chesterfield; in this hurry-up-and-wait military world, smoking a fag was about all a guy had to do, half the time. His legs were cramped, his back ached, and it seemed to him the driver was working for Hitler or maybe Tojo, intentionally aiming his wheels at every possible pothole. Next to Pete, when he wasn’t smoking, Rosetti snored away like a ’37 Ford with a bum muffler.

  Out the window, Pete watched the sun set over the hilly landscape and, as they rolled along, saw in the distance lights coming on in San Jose, then Menlo Park, Half Moon Bay, and Pacifica. They rumbled north, entering San Francisco from the south, driving through the city until they got onto the Bay Bridge with its view, breathtaking even after dark. Halfway across, they took an exit ramp and the bus wound down a steep hill.

  When they finally pulled up to the gate at Treasure Island, Pete wondered if he could get his legs and for that matter his ass working enough to get himself off the darn bus. He nudged Rosetti, who snorted like a bull and came awake all at once.

  “What?” Rosetti asked. “More crappy diner food?”

  As if the ex-cop wouldn’t have gobbled it down.

  “No,” Pete said. “We’re here.”

  In the seat in front of them, Driscoll turned around. “Who kissed Sleeping Beauty awake?”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Rosetti asked, lighting a Chesterfield he’d begged off Pete.

  “It means, my dear Rosie,” Driscoll said, “that you’ve been snoring like a rhino with a deviated septum for this whole journey.”

  “Deviate this, Dick,” Rosetti said, and grabbed his crotch.

  “Very droll,” Dick said.

  Pete, who had seen this gesture often from Rosetti, was still not quite used to it. Not a lot of that sort of thing had gone on back in Iowa.

  One of the gate guards came onto the bus like an irritated invader.

  “Welcome to Treasure Island Naval Base,” he said, in a tone that would have been more appropriate had he said, Who the hell stole my wallet? “The Admin building is shut down for the evening. We’ll give the driver directions to the mess hall, then you sons of bitches can get a bite. After that, somebody’ll show you where to bunk the night. Any officers aboard?”

  The Fantail Four raised their hands.

  The guard’s voice took on a grudgingly respectful timber. “Driver’ll drop you at the officers’ mess, sirs, then someone there will show you where to bunk.”

  Without waiting for a response, the guard leaned over, spoke to the driver, then exited the bus.

  “I could eat a horse,” Rosetti said, sending blue smoke out his nostrils.

  Connor said, “So could I, but if that’s what they’re serving, I may request Worcestershire. I’m just that fussy.”

  Driscoll turned back to Connor and said, “Your rabbi won’t let you eat pork, but horse is kosher?”

  “As we say in synagogue,” Connor said, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

  Driscoll tapped his collar with its new bars. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, sir.”

  “What you said,” Connor replied with a half-smile, “sir.”

  “Whoever rides it in,” Rosetti said, “I’m eating the damn nag.”

  The bus lurched into motion. Momentarily, on their right, just visible in the gathering darkness, sat a semi-circular, art moderne, three-story building with a glass turret.

  Somebody up front said, “Base HQ.”

  “That’s the base headquarters?” Connor asked. “It looks like Lana Turner’s dressing room.”

  California-boy Rosett
i said, “This island was home to the Golden Gate International Expo, back in ’39? And that was the administration building.”

  “No shit,” Connor said.

  Driscoll was in the know, as well. “Pan Am used to own that building; it was earmarked for the terminal and tower of the new San Francisco International Airport, after the Exposition.”

  “That obviously didn’t happen,” Pete said.

  “No,” Driscoll said. “When the war broke out, the Navy came in, and Pan Am lit out for Mills Field across the bay.”

  “Still looks like Lana Turner’s dressing room to me,” Connor insisted, as they passed two palm trees standing sentry at the entry into the building’s parking lot.

  San Francisco Bay was on their left as they rode down a long blacktop lined by palm trees on the bay side. Various buildings, most of them darkened for the night, loomed on the right. Five minutes later, having circled half the island, the bus drew up in front of a long, low-slung white building, its doors and trim painted blue: the officers’ mess. The four friends clambered off, and the bus groaned away as they stood there on the blacktop, their sea bags at their feet.

  “Why don’t we see a man about a horse?” Driscoll asked.

  This was Dick’s way of saying, Who’s hungry?

  They all headed for the door, brushing shoulders. Pete held it open while the others rushed inside, and he followed, surprised by how empty the large hall was. The only other inhabitants were two black steward’s mates behind the steam table, a tall thin one with a short thin partner, both dressed in white, neither looking as if he’d sampled the food here (or anywhere else) for quite some time.

  As the quartet got up to the counter and picked up trays, Driscoll asked, “Where in Green Pastures is everybody, boys?”

  “They ate early, sir,” the tall one said. “The CO wants a complete blackout after nine, and the base just got a new movie. They all hustled down there to see it before nine. It’s a Humphrey Bogart.”

  “With that good-lookin’ skinny gal from that other movie,” the short one said. “Who said if you want me, jus’ whistle?”

  “Ah, Miss Bacall,” Connor said, in reverie. “Sounds like a good one.”

  But the food didn’t smell as good as the movie sounded.