“Understood, Ensign.” Turning to his crew, Pete’s eyes sought out Seaman Washington. “Sarge!”
Washington hustled over. “Aye, sir?”
“How’s your math, sailor?”
“Got me through high school, sir.”
“Good.” Pete pointed down at the Higgins boat. “Take two men over into that LCVP and load the net with half the meat they’re hauling, divided as follows: one third beef, one third pork, one third mutton. Got it?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Now just wait a minute,” Randle protested, moving forward as if about to touch Pete’s sleeve.
Pete froze him with a look.
Washington climbed down into the Higgins boat, Willie Wilson and Big Brown right after. The white seaman in the boat almost pitched himself overboard trying to get as far away from the colored boys as he could. As they clambered down, at Pete’s direction, Clancy Mullins ran the crane over and lowered a cargo net over the side.
While the three Negroes loaded crates of meat into the net, the boat pilot and his buddy just watched, like victims at a stagecoach robbery, neither uttering a word.
Up on the deck, finally finding a little backbone, Ensign Randle said, “If you carry this action out, Lieutenant, I’ll go to the port authority.”
Pete leaned in, inches from the other officer’s nose. “I invite you to. Please go to the port authority. Come back with the Shore Patrol. Bring the quartermaster. And while you’re at it, bring the manifests that show you’re clearly discriminating against our ship and our crew.”
Randle sputtered a couple of times, then swallowed, and gave up the fight.
Pete and his guest watched in silence as the sailors finished loading the net, then rode it aboard as Mullins raised the crane arm back aboard and lowered it onto the deck. The three sailors jumped free, and soon Washington was standing in front of Pete.
“Is that exactly half the meat in the Higgins boat?” Pete asked.
“Aye, sir,” Washington said. “Close as possible without a butcher’s scale.”
“A third of each?”
“Aye, sir.”
Pete said, “Good work, Seaman Washington.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Turning to Randle, Pete said, “Thank you, Ensign, for the delivery. Much appreciated.”
“Do you really believe you can get away with this?”
“If anyone questions it, ask them if they think denying proper supplies to Negro sailors is a good idea, in the wake of the Port Chicago incident. Quote me, if you like.”
A much disconcerted Randle climbed over the side, down the cargo roping, without further comment.
Washington, Wilson, and Big Brown stood there grinning at Pete.
“Why are you men standing around when there’s work to do?” Pete barked. “Get this meat down to the locker before it spoils in this sun.”
“Aye aye, sir,” they all said at once, then each picked up a crate of meat as other crewmen appeared to pitch in.
Within the hour, comedy writer Ben Connor had dubbed the incident “Much Ado About Mutton,” and shortly after that the Liberty Hill Victory was at sea again, this time part of a much larger convoy traveling through more dangerous waters toward Eniwetok atoll on the far western edge of the Marshall Islands.
The crossing was to last five days, after which they would begin the final leg of the journey to Guam, where they would finally disgorge their load of ammunition as close to the front as they dared get.
Though the Marshall Islands were now under control of the Allied forces, the Japs had a nasty habit of turning up where they shouldn’t. Pearl Harbor had taught all Americans that much, so everyone on the ship was getting edgier as they drew closer to the action, traveling under radio silence now, signalmen using flags to communicate between ships during the day, and signal lamps at night.
Halfway through the thus-far quiet voyage, Pete drew the night watch—a black moonless sky, heat of the day having dissipated into a chilly evening as a storm front bore down from the west. Still they plowed along, the rest of the convoy barely outlined in the darkness.
Even a hick from Liberty Hill, Iowa, knew the difference between city dark and country dark, the desolate blackness of the ocean on the edge of a storm making it seem as if Pete and the other two men on the bridge were alone at the edge of the world.
Egan slept, as did Connor and Rosetti, while Driscoll was now checking on something (in the engine room, he said), leaving Pete on the bridge with the helmsman and the radar operator. With binoculars, Pete peered through the porthole, but saw little beyond the wakes of the other ships and the occasional flash of lightning behind distant clouds.
“Mr. Maxwell, sir?”
Turning, Pete saw Washington in the wheelhouse door. “What is it, Sarge?”
“Could we talk a minute, sir?”
“Lieutenant Driscoll isn’t here and I can’t leave the bridge. What is it?”
Washington pondered momentarily, then said, “That’s all right, sir—guess it’ll keep.”
The Negro sailor left through the starboard door, his unasked question hanging in Pete’s mind; then seconds later, Driscoll came in, port side.
“All clear,” Driscoll announced.
“Except for the weather,” Pete said. “Another hour, we’ll be in the middle of one hell of a storm.”
“You sound sure.”
Pete gestured with the binoculars. “Been through enough storm fronts to know a bad one when I see it coming. Barometer’s dropping, and this bastard’s headed right for us.”
Driscoll frowned, lengthening his already long face. “Should we wake up the skipper, you think?”
“No . . . not yet anyway. We can handle it.”
Driscoll shrugged fatalistically. “All right,” he said, as if Pete and not Driscoll himself were the boss.
“Look,” Pete said, “I’ve got to take care of something before the storm hits.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure what, frankly. One of the crew wanted a word.”
“And that can’t wait?”
“We’ve got time. I’ll be back in ten.”
“All right,” Driscoll said. He held out his palm and Pete filled it with the binoculars.
“Keep an eye on the wind,” Pete added. “Waves’ll start getting choppier.”
“Ten minutes,” Driscoll said, and turned the binoculars toward the front porthole.
Pete left the bridge through the starboard hatch, following the route Washington had taken onto the bridge deck. On a hunch, Pete took the stairs down to the boat deck and found Washington, just outside the galley, having a smoke, his hand shielding the orange tip.
“What’s up?” Pete asked.
In the subdued light leaking through the galley door, the seaman’s eyes were jewel bright. Taking a long drag, Washington seemed to ponder Pete’s seemingly innocent question for a long moment. Finally, he exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “Mr. Maxwell, we might have ourselves a problem.”
“Look, I know it’s a new ship with a new crew, but this storm—”
“Ain’t talkin’ about the weather, Mr. Maxwell.”
Lightning divided the sky, and in the split second of bright light, the scars on Washington’s cheeks seemed to glow. Then kettle-drums rolled overhead.
“It’s about Monroe, sir.”
“Little Orville?”
“Yes. He’s in a real mess.”
Pete frowned; storm of the century heading their way, and Sarge wanted to talk about that little fairy’s problems. Still, he said, “What kind?”
Washington moved to the rail, wind ruffling his clothes (and Pete’s), silence following him there for several long moments before he said, “Orv’s cornered me three times now and hardly said a damn thing.”
“Sarge, can we talk about this another time?”
Washington’s scarred mask of a face swivelled toward Pete. “I believe somebody’s taking advantage of the little gu
y. Bad advantage.”
“How so?”
Pinching off his cigarette and letting the butt drop over the side, Washington said, “Somebody’s using him like a god-damn sex slave.”
The phrase was so unexpected to the small-town officer that he shook his head, not sure he’d heard right. Then Pete studied the seaman’s somber face and dread washed over him as he realized his hearing was just fine. “My God. Who?”
“He won’t tell me. He just says somebody big and powerful is making him do sex things.”
“Another . . . homo?”
“A jailhouse homo, maybe.”
Pete squinted. “I don’t follow.”
“In the jailhouse, in prison? Guys put away for years got the same needs as you and me on the outside. They don’t have no women, so a small, weak girlish man like Orville can get handed around like a motherfuckin’ bottle of beer.”
Horrible, Pete thought, but what he said was, “He didn’t tell you who?”
Washington glanced around, then said, “Every time it seems like he’s going to, somebody shows up and spooks his ass. First time, when Captain Egan come around; next time it was Mr. Connor; last time Mr. Driscoll.”
“And Orville clammed in each instance?”
“He didn’t just clam, sir, he skedaddled. Like he seen a ghost.”
“Why do you think?”
The wind was whipping now. “Hell, Orville’s afraid of his damn shadow and a thousand other fuckin’ things, but he’s most afraid of white officers.”
“We’ve been decent enough to you men, haven’t we?”
“That’s not the point, Mr. Maxwell. White men, especially white officers, make the boy . . . jumpy.”
“I’m an officer. Orville and I get along fine.”
“I noticed that. Well, he trusts you, sir. Of course, he trusts Mr. Connor, too, and even Mr. Rosetti. But around Captain Egan or Lieutenant Driscoll, Orv turns into Willie Best.”
“Who’s Willie Best?”
“Feet-do-your-stuff darkie in the moving pictures.”
“Oh.” Pete got a Chesterfield going, despite the wind. “Any idea who might be forcing Orville to do this shit?”
Washington shook his head. “Could be damned near anybody. Sounds like Big Brown, from the description, but I find that hard to buy.”
“This sex stuff . . . is that why Monroe’s always trying to get a transfer?”
“Makes sense, don’t it?”
Rain began to pelt them now—big heavy drops driven by an increasing wind that felt like an obnoxious God was flicking them in the face every few seconds.
“Where the hell,” Pete asked, trying to protect his smoke from the raindrops, “is there enough privacy on this cramped ship to commit sex acts?”
Washington shrugged elaborately. “I’ve got no damn idea. Seems like, no matter where you are, somebody’s movin’ around somewhere on this tub. If somebody was getting blowed or cornholed, they have to worry about gettin’ walked in on, just about anywhere.”
This was a conversation Pete had never imagined having, not even in this man’s Navy. And the very fact that he understood exactly what Sarge was talking about showed how far Peter Maxwell had come . . . or fallen.
The waves no longer lapped at the ship but crashed into her, the chop steadily rising, the rain driving now. Washington and Pete stepped into the wheelhouse.
“You better get below, Sarge—this storm’s getting out of hand.”
“Aye, sir. What do we do about Orville?”
“When this damn squall’s behind us, Sarge, I promise you, we will figure this shit out.”
And Pete held his hand out and Sarge took it, shook it, and the men grinned humorlessly at each other before Sarge headed off down the stairs.
Pete went up to the bridge deck, cutting through the communications room, and onto the bridge from the rear. The pilothouse hatches were shut and locked now, rain pounding against the portholes. The two Negro crewmen on the bridge stayed steady, the helmsman’s forearm muscles knotted as he fought the wheel, sweat beading the radar operator’s face, his fear apparent but controlled. Driscoll in the captain’s chair appeared calm, but his eyes betrayed him when he looked to Pete.
“Good to have you back,” Driscoll said.
“Where’s the rest of the damn convoy?” Pete asked the radar man.
“Still holding formation, sir,” the crewman said. “But they’s wrestling the storm, too.”
The waves were higher now, the ship rolling on the choppy water, the storm’s intensity building. Pete could barely hold his balance as the ship lolled left, then right, then left again, lurching like a drunken sailor, then finally, blessedly, got sober and just plowed straight ahead. For the moment.
Pete asked his XO, “Did you wake the skipper?”
Driscoll shook his head.
“We better do it now.”
“Agreed. Go rouse him, Maxie.”
At the intercom, Pete pushed the button. “Captain Egan?”
A moment later, a groggy voice answered, “What the hell time is it?”
Pete ignored the question. “There’s a storm, sir, a pretty bad one. Mr. Driscoll is asking for you on the bridge.”
“. . . Be right there.”
Five minutes later, his eyebrows wild but his eyes steady, Egan marched onto the bridge, uniform cleaned and pressed, hair combed, though he hadn’t stopped to shave. Still, Pete wondered how the crusty old S.O.B. did it. If Pete had been the one rushing onto the bridge from a sound sleep, he’d be lucky to remember his pants, especially the way the storm was tossing the ship around like a goddamn toy boat.
“Situation report,” Egan barked, fighting to keep his own balance.
Driscoll rose from the captain’s chair, explained what had been happening and what they had done to prepare for the storm.
“Convoy still intact?” Egan asked the radar man.
One of two men who shared the job with Sarge Washington, Louis Frye was a light-skinned Negro about twenty, with short hair, muscular arms, and a perpetually curious baby face that made him seem about fifteen years old (when he was in fact nineteen). Sweat stained his shirt and he was clearly scared shitless.
“I’m losin’ the front of the convoy, sir. Can’t tell if they’re pullin’ away from us, or if the formation’s breakin’ up under the weather. Waves are too high to get an accurate reading.”
Egan nodded. He went to the intercom and pushed a button. “Engine room, this is the captain—ahead two-thirds.”
“Aye, sir,” came the crackly reply.
Wind and rain kept lashing at the ship, and the more the ship rolled, the more trouble these men had keeping their balance. Several times Pete slammed into the wall until finally he held one arm up against it, to steady himself.
“Wind’s coming from port?” Egan asked.
“Aye, sir,” Driscoll said. “Thirty knots with gusts to forty.”
“Ship’s pushing to starboard—we need to correct that. Helmsman, bring her left ten degrees.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. “Bearing left to course 280.”
Pete watched the helmsman battle the wheel as the ship continued to pitch over the choppy sea, but he finally steered the ship onto the proper course. They all turned as the wheel in the center of the port-side hatch began to spin.
Connor and Rosetti both burst into the pilothouse from the port bridge wing, jerking the hatch shut behind them.
They were soaked head-to-toe and Rosetti shook himself like a wet spaniel, water going everywhere. Then the ship dipped and he almost dropped to his knees.
Egan turned on them. “Mr. Rosetti, get down to the engine room.”
“Aye, sir,” Rosetti said, going out the way he came in, spinning the hatch wheel from the outside.
The course change, Pete could feel, had little effect on the waves crashing into the ship.
Egan waved Pete over. The journey of a few feet was compromised by the pitching and bucking, and Pete g
rabbed whatever it took to get across the bridge. Then Egan spoke just loud enough to be heard over the howling.
“Are you confident our cargo is secure, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Should be, sir.”
“Better make sure—send some men down into the holds. Any of these coloreds you can trust?”
“Yes, sir. That group who handled the loading should do very well—and I can supervise it myself!”
“Can’t spare you on the bridge—with Mr. Rosetti in the engine room, I need my other officers with me. Any non-coms up to the job?”
“I know a man who can handle it, sir,” Pete said, though he didn’t mean one of the non-coms.
“Good, good,” Egan said.
Pete maneuvered awkwardly over to the squawk box and called Washington to the chart room. Two minutes that were a jostling eternity crawled by and then Sarge was trotting up the stairs from the cabin deck. Pete sent the radio-man—who had little to do, anyway, under radio silence—onto the bridge; the lieutenant needed to speak to Washington alone—wouldn’t want talk of jeopardy over their explosive cargo panicking the crew.
“Sarge,” Pete said, “we both know you’re the leader among the colored boys.”
“Wouldn’t say that, sir.”
“False modesty isn’t an allowable luxury, right now—this storm is a goddamn roller-coaster ride, and it’s not going to get any smoother, soon.”
“Had that feeling, sir.”
“I mean no offense when I say those boys down below are probably nervous as hell right now—and I don’t think color has anything to do with it. A white crew, stuck down there off-duty, would be pissing and moaning, too.”
“No argument, sir.”
“I need you to go down there and tell those men that everything’ll be A-number-one.”
“Yes, sir. Will it, sir?”
“Should be. Captain Egan may have his faults, but he’s a hell of a sailor, and he’ll get us through this. Biggest danger may be our cargo.”
“You mean, this ship blows up and shoots enough fire in the sky to put out the storm?”
Pete nodded glumly. “We should already be secure down there, but hell, you can feel the pitching and rolling.”
Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II Page 15