“Hey, man, didn’t you hear me? I said you black guys got really screwed-up combs!”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Travers realized he was standing in the narrow, congested passageway surrounded by black sailors, many of them armed. He wasn’t sure where they had come from, because they weren’t all from his berthing area. Travers also noticed right away that they didn’t look too happy. Suddenly one short guy punched him in the face with a right hook, leaving him reeling. Travers regained his senses and looked at the guy for a moment, wondering what the hell was happening, then the fist popped him in the face again. When he was able to see straight again, Travers was about to start wailing on the guy, not willing to just stand there and take a third punch for no reason. But then he noticed that his friend Jerry had stepped back from around the corner and was watching. Travers could see that Jerry was trying to make eye contact with him, shaking his head no, as if warning Travers not to make a move. Packed in tightly with the black sailors and recognizing the danger, Travers swallowed his pride and didn’t fight back.
When he backed down, the black sailors turned away from him and entered the berthing compartment, where they pulled the white sailors out of their bunks, beat them savagely, and trashed the area. Fights also were happening in several areas nearby, and Travers just backed away.
Good god, what’s going on? Are they really that upset about what I said?
For years, Pettus and Travers would both think that they had started the riot on the Kitty Hawk, the black man by urging a crowd to seek retribution for his mistreatment and the white man by making an ill-advised comment about an afro comb.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A RAISED FIST
John Travers could see that the fight was getting bigger. More and more men were coming to his berthing area, both blacks and whites, and he had no idea who was fighting whom or what the whole mess was about. He fought off a couple of black sailors who came after him and then as he paused in a passageway with another white sailor, Travers asked what the hell was going on.
“I don’t really know, man,” the other sailor said. “I heard it was something about that fight in the forward mess deck last month. The one where the guy stepped on some black dude’s toe and they got to fighting.”
“Yeah, I remember. That white guy was a black belt and he ended up beating up four of the black guys, right?”
“Uh-huh. And then the master-at-arms put him in protective custody for thirty days. They just let him out, and the black guys are going after him. That’s what I heard.”
Travers realized that he was in a bad spot. He couldn’t tell which way through the maze of passageways might lead to safety and which might throw him right into the melee again. It was clear, however, that this passageway outside his berthing area wasn’t a safe place to stay. He felt very vulnerable just crouching there empty-handed, so he started looking around for a weapon. If one of those guys came after him with a pipe, he wanted something to defend himself.
My knife. I have to get that knife.
Travers had bought a switchblade with a six-inch blade in the Philippines, mostly just because he thought it looked cool, and it was stuffed in his locker. Making his way through the melee without having to engage anyone, Travers made it back inside the berthing area and to his locker. He found the knife, then grabbed some heavy-duty tape used to wrap packages. With the tape he fashioned a three-foot lanyard that attached the switchblade securely to his wrist, ensuring that if he lost his grip on the knife, it wouldn’t fall far. Watching the beatings continue around him, breathing heavily from adrenaline and ready to defend himself, Travers popped the blade open and looked at it. The blade looked huge.
Maybe this is stupid. I’ve just tied a big knife to myself. I think I just provided these guys a weapon to kill me with.
Travers used the knife to cut the tape lanyard off his wrist and threw the blade away, behind some cabinetry so it wouldn’t be found easily. Maybe getting the hell out of there is the better choice. He saw an empty passageway and took off.
THE LEADERS OF the Kitty Hawk did not have any idea of the violence that was seizing their ship. The captain was asleep in his sea cabin near the bridge, where he often stayed. Most of the other top officers, including the XO and the Marine commander, were in the officers’ wardroom watching a movie.
At about the same time that Travers was running for his life, another group of angry men was escorting a black sailor named Rowe to the ship investigator’s office for questioning. Like the mob that was whipped into a frenzy by Avinger and Pettus, this group of black sailors had also been worked up by someone who felt aggrieved by his treatment at the hands of whites. Airman Rowe had been charged that day with disobeying, being disrespectful, and assaulting a petty officer, along with drug possession. When he was summoned for questioning, Rowe showed up with nine other black sailors and then refused to make a statement. Told that the investigation would continue and that he would have to face the charges, Rowe and his friends left angrily. The black sailors railed about the white man’s justice system while making their way back to their berthing areas, pumping up each other’s anger over what they saw as harassment of Rowe.
By the time they made it to the aft mess deck around 8 P.M., they were primed for a fight. As they entered the mess deck, they saw a young white sailor stacking trays. One of the black sailors walked up and threw a punch, knocking the young man down and scattering trays. That first punch acted as the signal for the rest of the group; they took off after any white face they could see. Their rampage seemed interminable but really lasted less than half an hour, joined by another five black sailors who jumped right in. After the crowd had run off all the white sailors and had made a mess of the area, they agreed to talk with a commissaryman—a sailor assigned full time to meal preparation—who happened to be a member of the ship’s human relations council, the group designated to hear the grievances of men on the Kitty Hawk. The black sailors went to a training room near the mess deck with the commissaryman and two food service officers, all white. Now calm and reasonable for the most part, the black sailors explained that they were upset about Rowe’s treatment and the events in Olongapo. The officers dutifully noted the black sailors’ complaints and got them to agree that trashing the mess deck wasn’t the right way to get attention for their cause. Then they allowed the black men to leave without being punished for their actions. The officers were hearing rumors about skirmishes and worse from all over the ship. They felt that it would be better to let the sailors go and hope that calmed down the tense atmosphere than to detain the men. They didn’t want to escalate the violence by trying to hold the men or discipline them.
Unfortunately, their efforts to calm the men didn’t work. After the black sailors went back to the part of the ship that housed their berthing areas, they started getting each other fired up all over again. More and more black sailors were gathering in the same place, groups of rioters joining to make one much bigger, much more volatile mob. The group that included Terry Avinger was in this area now. At about 9:15 P.M. the group’s anger reached a crescendo, and black sailors started assaulting whites again, first in the aft berthing areas, then making their way back to the aft mess deck. There they chased down and viciously beat white messmen, some of whom were still cleaning up after the earlier riot. Then they went after other white sailors in the area. The riot in the aft mess deck was on again, bigger than before.
CHRIS MASON, MEANWHILE, had finished his shift in the mail room and was making his way to his berthing area under the aft mess deck on the starboard side. He had just gone down a ladder when suddenly two white guys came running toward him in a panic. The looks on their faces instantly made Mason’s mind start cycling through all the bad things that can happen on a carrier—fire, enemy attacks, explosions, gas leaks, steam leaks, and on and on. While he was still trying to think what could scare them so much, he heard one of the sailors scream “Call the Marines!”
What the hell
?
“Get the Marines! There’s all kinds of hell going on in the aft mess deck!”
Mason didn’t know what they were talking about, but he figured it was a fight. Not so unusual, but those guys looked scared. Since he didn’t see any other indication of trouble, Mason proceeded toward his berthing area by the most direct path, which would take him right to the aft mess deck. As he got closer, he could hear a lot of screaming and the sound of things being smashed. Mason’s curiosity got the better of him. Instead of turning around, he went on to the entrance of the mess deck and looked inside. He could hardly believe what he saw. Black sailors were running around and screaming, throwing chairs, ketchup bottles, anything they could pick up. A couple of white mess cooks were being tossed around too, but it looked to Mason like most of the whites had already fled. Mason hung out on the perimeter with some other sailors, white and black, who were too curious to turn away.
As the rampage continued, a chief on the mess deck called down to the Marine detachment and asked for help. About twenty Marines were in their centrally located berthing area, just below the hangar deck. A black gunnery sergeant named Robert L. Sellers took the call. Tall, with a receding hairline and black rimmed glasses, he gave the impression of maturity and authority. He soon hung up the phone and volunteered to go check on the situation.
“There’s some kind of disturbance. They need me to calm somebody down,” he told the other Marines. “I’ll take care of it.”
The chief had told him the problem was black sailors going nuts, so Sellers figured it would be better for him to go instead of sending a white Marine. Sellers didn’t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily, but he told his fellow Marines to stay on the alert.
“Just be ready to go if anything’s happening down there,” he said.
Sellers, a large, imposing authority figure, hustled to the mess deck. He was astounded by what he saw there, and concerned. Every bit the Marine, he seized command of the situation and ordered the sailors to knock it off and leave the deck. Perhaps because the order came from a black man, even if he was a Marine, the rioters grew calmer. Sellers thought his mere presence might be enough to keep the men settled down. Like other authority figures on board, he didn’t want to exacerbate the situation by bringing in a show of force if it could be avoided. Apparently Sellers was imposing enough on his own.
But the nearly twenty Marines back in their berthing area hadn’t heard anything from Sellers and were still waiting on alert for any sign of trouble. It soon came in the form of a panic-stricken, breathless mess cook covered in all manner of food, ketchup, and something else that might not have been ketchup. He rushed into the Marines’ berthing area and shouted between heaving breaths.
“We need Marines in the aft mess deck!” he yelled. “They’re going crazy in there! We need Marines down there quick!”
The Marines, some in green fatigues and some in nothing more than boxer shorts, T-shirts, and boots, grabbed their wooden batons and spilled out of the compartment. They met up with a few more Marines, including Corporal Anthony Avina, who was wearing a sidearm. As the Marines double-timed it to the aft mess deck, their boots stomping on the metal plate flooring and creating a thunderous warning to anyone about to be run over, they passed by the officers’ wardroom where their commander, Captain Carlucci, was watching the 1969 movie Paint Your Wagon, with a number of other officers, including XO Cloud. It was the first chance Cloud had had to watch a movie since joining the Kitty Hawk, and it turned out to be a western musical with Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin singing to each other. The din of the passing Marines caught the attention of the men in the wardroom, including Carlucci, who leapt up to see what was going on. Seeing his Marines racing by, Carlucci yelled for a report and the men yelled back without stopping.
“Trouble in the aft mess deck!”
“Something big!”
“Gunny went up there and he’s in trouble!”
Carlucci took off after his men and others in the room shouted for Cloud, who was toward the front of the wardroom and hadn’t seen the commotion. Cloud made his way to the hatch as others told him about the Marines charging by. When he heard others in the room saying that they were calling the captain, Cloud took off after Carlucci and the Marines.
A legal officer who had been watching the movie, Lieutenant James P. Martin, picked up the phone in the wardroom to call the captain.
The phone rang at 9:47 P.M. in Captain Townsend’s sea cabin, the berthing area just steps away from the bridge that he often used instead of his main quarters, particularly when he needed to stay close to the action. Townsend was asleep but used to waking instantly when the phone rang because it could mean any number of problems with flight operations or control of the ship. The phone woke him.
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Martin. There’s some sort of big disturbance in the aft mess deck. The Marines are on the way so I thought you should know.”
Townsend shot a curt “Thank you” and hung up. His first concern was to protect the Kitty Hawk. All of the black power, antiwar incidents throughout the fleet and the other services came to mind. Was he facing that kind of threat? he wondered. Townsend thought of the classified message that had warned of sabotage attempts and the “Stop the Hawk” movement that he expected to materialize. He also recalled the fight at the Sampaguita Club and his worries that it had been premeditated. If this business in the mess deck was really anything serious, he had to keep the troublemakers from sabotaging the ship and taking her off line. The most vulnerable and high-value targets for saboteurs were the airplanes on the flight deck and in the hangar bay. Any violence on the mess deck might spread or be used as a diversion for men damaging the aircraft. Townsend immediately went to the bridge and issued orders, first to the navigator, whose position on the bridge gave him a clear view of the flight deck.
“I want a sharp lookout on the flight deck at all times. Keep your eyes out there. If you see any unusual activity, you get somebody on it right away.”
Then he turned to the air officer and ordered full illumination on the flight deck instead of the minimal deck lights normally used at night. “I don’t want anybody out there who shouldn’t be. Don’t give them anywhere to hide.”
With the flight deck brightly lighted and the bridge officers on high alert, Townsend called the master-at-arms. “Get some people out there on the flight deck and in the hangar bay. I don’t want anybody messing with those planes.”
MASON HEARD THE MARINES coming before he saw them. By the time they stomped down the passageway, he and the other gawkers had cleared out of the doorway to make a path. The Marines burst into the mess deck, ready for a fight, They had their batons at the ready and instantly sized up the situation. Black sailors were tearing the mess deck apart. And where was Gunny?
Sellers was standing there in the mess deck, perfectly fine, and surprised to see the rest of the Marines charge in. The Marines took up positions to begin retaking control, Sellers in line with his buddies. The twenty-five black sailors, who had been mostly calm under Sellers’s control, reacted immediately. Avinger and Rowe were among the most vocal of those shouting insults. The black sailors taunted the Marines, raised their fists in black power salutes, and reveled in their defiance of authority. A bunch of Marines showing up with batons wasn’t going to make them stand down.
If anything, the presence of the Marines in such force only inflamed the black men. From their perspective, the Marines—including the few black Marines—were not friendly faces and they weren’t there to ensure order. Quite the opposite. To many of the black sailors on board, the Marines were the Navy equivalent of the white police force that harassed them back home, the most visible and most dangerous face of the white establishment. They were the enemy. They lived apart from the rest of the crew and had little interaction except when brute force or intimidation was needed. Black sailors, and even some white ones, saw the Marines as the enforcers for the system that mistreated them in so many ways, the troopers who
were eager to kick some black ass and bash heads at the first opportunity. To many on the Kitty Hawk, a Marine was just another pig. Even on a normal day, many sailors took every opportunity to taunt the Marines, lobbing a bit of trash at them from an upper deck, spitting on them, or shouting an insult when they could get away with it. The Marines thought too many of the sailors looked and acted more like hippies than good military men. As far as they were concerned, a lot of them needed a good Marine to set them straight. They were ready to do it right here.
Cloud knew that a confrontation between the Marines and the angry black sailors could be disastrous. That was why he was racing to the mess deck.
They’ll go crazy if the Marines go in with a show of force, Cloud thought. I’ve got to get there fast and keep this thing from blowing up.
As Carlucci and Cloud neared the mess deck, the temperature was rising, just as the XO had feared. The black sailors were incensed that the Marines had come in and, just by standing there with batons, were threatening them. Then the sailors started throwing anything they could find at the Marines: ketchup bottles, salt shakers, metal trays, chairs. Others raised the broken bottles in front of them as weapons, ready to take on the Marines when they charged. The Marines dodged the items thrown their way but stood their ground and waited. Only when the black sailors overturned tables and tried to block the entrance to the mess deck did the Marines move, forming a half circle to defend the entryway. That’s how Carlucci found them when he made it to the mess deck. He saw his Marines holding a line, assisted by a handful of masters-at-arms, facing off with a row of black sailors who appeared equally determined to defend their position. Carlucci knew his Marines were just waiting for the right moment to make their move.
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