Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  “Am I? We were just maybe thirty seconds from a full-scale melee. If that neanderthal Griffin hadn’t backed down, we’d all’ve been fighting, probably for our goddamn lives.”

  Pete touched the lieutenant’s arm and locked eyes with him. “Dick—we all of us said we wanted to do more in this war.”

  “Fighting the Japs! Not fighting Amos and Andy and the goddamn Kingfish. . . . Christ, we’ll end up fighting all of them, white and colored.”

  “And how,” Pete said, “do you propose we get out of this?

  Go to the skipper and tell him, sorry, we don’t like this assignment? We’d rather go out to sea with white sailors. Do you mind?”

  Driscoll said nothing. He knew they were screwed.

  Pete tried to put the best slant on it. “Look, we all know the Navy’s going to integrate—deeper we get in this war, the more we need every able-bodied man. We just have an opportunity to—”

  “Oh Christ,” Driscoll muttered. “Muzzle him, somebody.”

  Pete pressed on: “With this duty, we can make a bigger impact than we ever dreamed of. Prove ourselves as men and as officers.”

  Pete might have been a roadside accident, the way Driscoll looked at him. “Has it occurred to you, Maxie—to any of you—that we’re about to serve on the fucking USS Powderkeg? An ammunition ship run by colored boys who despise our lily-white asses?”

  “I am lily-white,” Pete admitted. “I’m a kid from Iowa where the closest thing to seeing anybody colored is when you get a suntan detassling corn. But I never knew a Jew before I met this crazy asshole Connor from Brooklyn. And I sure never ran into any Italian-Mexican mongrels like Rosetti. As for you, Dick, why you’re whiter than the Hitler Youth. So who’s better suited to take this on than us?”

  “You’re serious,” Driscoll said.

  “Well, I’m not asking for a transfer, first day on the job. Put it that way.”

  Turning to Connor, Driscoll asked, “Are you buyin’ this load of holier-than-thou horseshit?”

  “Calling me a crazy asshole does seem a little harsh,” Connor said. “Otherwise, yeah. I’m with Pete.”

  Driscoll fell silent and so did Pete and Connor.

  Soon Sarge Washington was leading the runners back around the last building. The big scarred seaman had barely worked up a sweat, although Rosetti, next to him, was drenched with the stuff. Bringing up the rear were the four white noncoms, Griffin the only one who seemed to be keeping up the pace, probably on sheer anger, the others lagging.

  Pete made a circle with his index finger in the air. “Once more around, Seaman Washington.”

  Sarge smiled at him. “Aye aye, Lieutenant. We just gettin’ warmed up.”

  Rosetti jogged to a stop as the rest of the runners went on by. He bent and put his hands on his knees and breathed deep. “Well? We stuck with this duty or what?”

  With a sour smile, Driscoll said, “Seems we’re doing this for history or mankind or some such flopdoodle. You’ll have to check with Maxie to get the full details. What do I know? I’m only the XO.”

  Shaking his head, Rosetti said, “I figured it wasn’t good news.”

  And he jogged back off, falling in behind the stragglers and encouraging them to pick up the pace.

  The crew had just turned the first corner and out of sight when a Jeep pulled up next to the three Fantailers. A tall, sturdily built officer in sunglasses, his hat down nearly to his eyebrows, climbed out like he was taking a beachhead; on his collar, he wore the gold oak leaf of a lieutenant commander.

  The California sunshine had done nothing for his pasty com

  plexion.

  “Ten-hut,” Driscoll said, and all three came to attention.

  As he approached, the lieutenant commander removed his glasses and studied them. Pushing fifty, he had brown eyes with thick, shaggy brows, and a nose that had been broken at least once in a well-grooved face that included a chiseled chin. His mouth was a thin-lipped line.

  All three men saluted and held it until he returned the gesture.

  “Names and assignments,” the commander said in a gruff baritone that would not have prompted Pete to offer the man an audition for the choir.

  “Lieutenant Richard Driscoll, executive officer, Liberty Hill Victory.”

  “Lieutenant (j.g.) Peter Maxwell, second officer, Liberty Hill Victory.”

  “Ensign Benjamin Connor, communications officer, Liberty Hill Victory.”

  “Where’s the other shavetail?” the commander asked.

  “Ensign Vincent Rosetti,” Driscoll said. “Engineer, Liberty—”

  “Answer the question as asked, Lieutenant,” the commander snapped. “Where is he?”

  Pete said, “He’s running with the crew, sir. He should be back . . .”

  “I don’t recall asking you, Mr. Maxwell.” He shook his head now, openly irritated. “For your information and edification, gentlemen, there are only two things that burn my ass more than smart-ass college boys. Would you happen to know what those are, Mr. Driscoll?”

  Driscoll said nothing, glancing at the others for help. None was forthcoming.

  The commander’s voice turned icy. “Coloreds and commies. Coloreds, commies, college boys—my three ‘C’s. In my view, groups responsible for all the trouble in this man’s Navy.”

  Connor couldn’t help himself. “Well, at least we don’t have any communists aboard.”

  The commander shot Connor a look-to-kill, and the comedy writer seemed to fold in on himself. “Do we know that, Mr. Connor? These simple-minded coloreds are easy marks for socialist subversion—over at Port Chicago, we’ve found union booklets, you know.”

  Be careful what you wish for, Peter, his mother’s voice whispered.

  “Enough of this chit chat. I’m Lieutenant Commander John Jacob Egan, commanding officer of the Liberty Hill Victory. Does it strike you as appropriate, Mr. Connor, to make weisenheimer remarks to your commanding officer?”

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “If you’re not sorry now, Mr. Connor, you damn well will be. Give it time.” Egan studied the ensign for an agonizingly suspicious moment. “Connor . . . that’s Irish, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sir,” Connor said.

  “Somehow you don’t look Irish to me, Mr. Connor. Egan is Irish, you know.”

  “Yes, sir. Lot of Egans in my neighborhood, sir.”

  “What neighborhood is that, Mr. Connor?”

  “Brooklyn, sir.”

  “Brooklyn is not a neighborhood, Mr. Connor. It’s a borough. You do know the difference between a neighborhood and a borough, Mr. Connor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And the ensign left it at that, having no desire to learn where Jews fell on Lieutenant Commander Egan’s hate parade.

  The crew rounded the last corner, the runners approaching now. Sarge was still out front, loping along easily, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. As the group ran back into the grass, many bending over gasping for breath, others dropping to the ground, sweat pearling off dark skin under rolled-up sleeves, Rosetti trotted up to the officers and saluted smartly.

  “Skipper, Ensign Vincent Rosetti, engineer.”

  Egan returned the salute. “Another college boy.”

  “Don’t hold it against me, sir,” Rosetti said. “Night school.”

  Eyeing Rosetti appraisingly, Egan said, “What did you do during the day, then, Mr. Rosetti?”

  “Beat cop in L.A., sir.”

  The lieutenant commander darn near smiled. “Good, good,” he said. “Good to hear. That will come in handy in these . . . circumstances.” He gazed toward the runners recovering over on the grass. “So . . . this is our crew.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Fantail Four said as one.

  “Well, headquarters warned me about this. We’ll just have to make the best of it, right, men?”

  Together they said, “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Leadership is all about making the tough decisions, isn’t that right, Mr.
Driscoll?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “These coloreds have just as much right to fight this war as anybody. We’ll see they get their chance, won’t we, Lieutenant?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He expelled a bushel of air. “Very well. Get them showered and cleaned up. We’re leaving for Richmond this afternoon. You have one hour to have them all in front of the HQ building in their dress whites—understood, Lieutenant Driscoll?”

  “Aye, sir,” Driscoll said. “One hour.”

  Egan gave them one crisp nod to share among them, then returned to his Jeep.

  Driscoll walked over to the crew and introduced himself and gave them their orders, his manner cool but not hostile.

  One hour later, the crew had assembled in formation in front of the art moderne HQ building, where a bus and a Jeep waited. Egan exited the building and stepped up to Driscoll.

  “You and Mr. Maxwell in the Jeep with me,” Egan said. “Ensigns Connor and Rosetti on the bus with . . . the crew.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A driver from Treasure Island climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep and another plopped into the driver’s seat of the bus. The tiny convoy crossed the Bay Bridge into Oakland, then rumbled north into Richmond, circling around the shoreline of San Francisco Bay till they came to a cyclone fence gate. The fence ran from the bay on one side, passed the gate, then snaked around a corner. A big sign lashed to the fence read:

  KAISER-PERMANENTE SHIPYARDS STOP U.S. NAVY SECURITY

  A Shore Patrol guard in white helmet and armband came out of the guard shack and approached the Jeep. He had a holstered pistol on his belt; a few paces away, another guard had an M-1 rifle slung lazily across his chest, not quite pointed at them.

  Egan reached across the driver and handed the guard several sheets of paper.

  “Crew of the Liberty Hill Victory,” the skipper said.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said, reading the top sheet. “Just a moment.” The Shore Patrol man returned to the guard shack and, through the glass, Pete could see the guard pick up a phone and speak and then nod.

  The guard returned with the papers folded up, handed them to Egan and said, “Pier Eight, sir. Down around the far end to the right. I can have a guard accompany you, if that would be easier.”

  Egan waved him off. “We’ll find it, son. Thanks.”

  Pete couldn’t help but notice that they were “damned college boys,” but this guard, an enlisted man, was “son.” In his gut, something cold twitched. The skipper’s outlook was darn odd, and not just his ranting and raving about “colored and commies.” Weren’t his officers an extension of him? How could Pete and the Fantailers be Egan’s eyes and ears when the old salt seemed so full of contempt for them?

  Trying to shake this unsettling feeling, Pete turned his gaze ahead, seeing the masts over the tops of buildings; but it wasn’t until they came around the last of the fabricating buildings that he caught sight of the ship named for his hometown.

  Long and gray, she sat high in the water, her holds obviously empty. Not as sleek as a destroyer or cruiser, the Liberty Hill Victory had a boxy look to her. Pete had studied her specs, and knew her to be just over four-hundred fifty-five feet long with a sixty-two foot beam and a fifteen foot draft, unloaded. Once she had a full cargo of ammo, the draft would be a lot more like twenty-seven feet.

  Boxy or not, the ship gave Pete a thrill, seeing the name of his hometown painted on the bow. That was just for the christening, of course. Below the name was the designation AK235, auxiliary cargo hull #235.

  Auxiliary meant the Liberty Hill Victory would normally have been carrying fruit, canned goods, toilet paper, and what-have-you. These, however, were not normal times and she would definitely be serving as an ammo ship.

  The fourteen cargo booms were all upright and lashed down, giving the ship the appearance of standing at attention, awaiting her new crew. Perhaps she was not a great warship, but never had Pete seen anything quite so magnificent as the USS Liberty Hill Victory.

  Since the only identification Navy ships showed was the hull number, however, one of their first jobs—ironically enough—would be to paint out the white letters spelling LIBERTY HILL VICTORY.

  The Jeep and the bus halted on the pier near the ship.

  Egan led as the men piled out of the vehicles and made their way up the gangplank, the line moving slowly as each man stopped at the top to salute the flag before climbing aboard.

  From their orders, each man knew his work station, battle station, and billet. Lieutenant Commander Egan, now the captain aboard the ship, had a cabin to himself, as did the first mate, Driscoll, whose quarters doubled as his office. The same was true for Rosetti, the ship’s engineer.

  Pete shared a cramped cabin with Connor on the port side. The left side of the room was bunk beds with a single bed on the other. Pete, as ranking officer, chose the lower with Connor happy to have the single. By the head of the bunk beds were two wooden lockers; on the same wall as the door, a fold-down desk was below a mirrored medicine chest. A third locker stood at the foot of Connor’s bed.

  Each bed had a small reading light mounted on the wall just above the pillow, and a small wooden shelf hung on the wall above Pete’s bed. One fan was attached to the wall next to the room’s only porthole—the only protection they would have against the Pacific heat.

  “Not exactly the Waldorf,” Connor said, as they both unpacked their sea bags and transferred the contents to their respective lockers.

  Pete shrugged.

  “Still,” Connor said, “must be a treat for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Beats sleeping in the barn.”

  “Are we going to do the ‘how many times do I have to tell you I don’t live on a farm’ routine again? Couldn’t you just sell it to Abbott and Costello?”

  “My, you Iowa girls are sensitive.”

  “There are towns west of Manhattan, you know.”

  “Sure. Jersey City. Newark.”

  “How ever did you survive San Diego?”

  “Tough, Pete. Tough. If I hadn’t found that little deli restaurant, with the great lox and bagels? I’d’ve lost my mind.”

  “I’ve had lox and bagels before.”

  “Do tell! Where?”

  “Hotel Fort Des Moines. They serve all kinds of foreign dishes.”

  “Foreign dishes! Pete . . . you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  “A little.”

  Driscoll poked his nose in. “Can it, George and Gracie. Skipper wants everybody topside, double time. Let’s go.”

  The sun blinded them when they exited the wheelhouse, but the warmth felt good, and they all paused briefly to let their eyes adjust. Egan was waiting for them in front of the bridge.

  “Mr. Driscoll,” Egan said, “get these people into formation.”

  Driscoll carried out the order and, in less than a minute, the crew stood in even rows atop wood panels that served as the cover for number three hatch.

  Standing with the other Fantailers, Pete wondered if Egan was about to spew the same sort of venom at the crew as he had toward his officers this morning. The captain had his sunglasses on again and Pete wondered if this shielded him from having to look directly at these two C’s from his list—college boys and coloreds.

  Then—feet firmly planted, chest out—Egan swept the glasses off dramatically, his eyes moving slowly across the assemblage, seeming to take in every single man in the formation, largely a sea of black faces.

  “Stand easy!” he told them.

  Funny, Pete thought. That had been his own first order to these men.

  “Most of you don’t know me,” he said, gruff but not unfriendly. “I am Lieutenant Commander John Jacob Egan, and I’m captain of the Liberty Hill Victory. In the time we’re together, you’ll find me to be a tough captain. You will also find me to be fair, unless you do not deserve fair treatment. That will be your choice.”

  They all stood silent, water l
apping against the hull the only sound.

  “Our job in this war is simple. Don’t think because we are not in battle that we are not fighting this war. Ours is a vital job. Brutally put, the more ammunition we deliver to our troops and our planes and our ships, the more Japs we kill. Kill enough of them, and victory will be ours.”

  There was some scattered applause and Egan’s face remained a somber mask until it stopped.

  “We all have the same goal here—to win. Toward that end, I’m going to work you longer and harder than you’ve ever been worked in your life. The better job we do, the sooner this war will end.”

  Again, a few of the men clapped and whooped, and Egan waited.

  “Now, when we get back to the base,” he said, “you’ll all be granted twenty-four-hour liberty.”

  More applause and more whoops.

  “But when you come back, be ready to work. Because the war begins then—understood?”

  “Aye aye, sir!” they said in one voice.

  Astounded, Pete could only wonder where the prejudiced horse’s ass he’d met this morning had disappeared to. This new Captain Egan had already worked this crew up to where they’d run through flames for him. Where was the monster who, just a few hours ago, had as much as promised to make all their lives a living hell?

  Egan said, “Leadership is about making tough decisions . . . and sticking to them. And I have faith in the leaders on this ship. Follow my orders, and those of my officers, and you’ll be fine.”

  Pete glanced sideways to see how Driscoll was reacting to the skipper’s speech. The exec stood ramrod straight, his face blank as a baby’s. Whatever he might be feeling, Driscoll was keeping it to himself.

  Egan asked the assemblage, “Do you men understand?”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  “Back to the base then,” Egan said.

  The crew applauded, and the captain nodded his thanks, the thin line of his mouth etched in a near smile.

  Soon the commander was sitting in the Jeep and waiting while the Fantail Four oversaw the loading of the bus, herding the Negroes in.

  Pete was at the front door of the bus, guiding the men up and in. Sarge, with steward’s mate Willie Wilson right behind him, paused to speak to Pete.