The disorder and confusion of the night gave cover to those who had an agenda. While much of the violence was random, some of the more militant, organized black sailors took advantage of the opportunity to exact revenge on specific individuals. Some of the men on board knew exactly whom they wanted to go after. As the violence spread, one of the predetermined targets was twenty-year-old airman James W. Radford, the young mess cook who a few days earlier had refused to serve an out-of-uniform black sailor. He and the other sailor had nearly come to blows until another black sailor intervened, telling Radford’s adversary that it was “not the time or place.”
The black sailors had not forgotten. As they and some of their black brothers ran wild on the Kitty Hawk, they decided that now was the time, and this was the place. Radford was resting in his berthing area with several buddies, stretched out and largely unaware of the growing riot. He and his friends had heard talk about some fights and disturbances nearby, but they didn’t know what was going on and didn’t want to investigate. Suddenly a group of fifteen black sailors burst in, grabbed a white sailor out of his rack, and started beating him. The whites in the compartment went to his aid. By the time Radford got there, the black sailors had retreated, leaving the whites standing there in shock. What the hell was that? Who were those guys?
The man they beat wasn’t hurt too badly, so Radford and his friends stayed where they were, wondering what would happen next. They didn’t have to wait long. Radford had just settled back into his rack when another group burst in and started pulling sailors from their bunks. As Radford was trying to fend off a couple of guys, he saw another white sailor being beaten in the head with a pair of nunchakus, the wooden batons joined by a short length of chain that could inflict a brutal injury.
After beating the men severely, the black sailors left the compartment, and Radford tried to aid the man who had been attacked with the nunchakus. He was bleeding badly from head wounds. The other men, themselves bruised and bloody, picked him up and headed to the hatch to take him to the sick bay. As they stepped into the passageway, they encountered several white sailors who were also helping a wounded man, his arms draped around their shoulders.
“You can’t go this way!” one man shouted. “They won’t let you go through the mess deck to take guys to sick bay! You have to go up and over the hangar bay. We just came from there, and the chances of getting hit in the hangar bay are pretty good too.”
Good god, they won’t even let us take this man to sick bay, Radford thought. This is like a full-scale war.
A couple of the men took the severely injured man toward the hangar deck, the long way around to sick bay. The man was close to passing out and leaving a trail of blood everywhere. After seeing no more attackers headed their way, Radford stepped back into the berthing compartment. He and another white sailor sat down, not knowing what to do next. They were joined by a white master-at-arms who took refuge in their compartment but didn’t seem eager to do anything about the violence.
The men looked up as they heard another group of raucous sailors coming down the passageway, but it looked like the group was going to just pass them by. A number of the black men had already passed when one saw Radford sitting on a couch.
“Hey, there’s the man that gave Wilson the hassle the other day,” he called to his buddies.
The group stopped and came to the hatch, staring at Radford, who had no idea what they were talking about.
“You’re the honky who wouldn’t serve a black man!” one of them shouted.
Oh geez … that? This is about that stupid thing with the guy out of uniform and I wouldn’t serve him?
The blacks crowded into the compartment, pushing the whites around and paying special attention to Radford. It was time to make him pay for his crime. One of the leaders shouted for someone to go get Wilson, and a couple of men took off to find him. In the meantime, the leader commandeered a chair in the middle of the room and set himself up as the judge, telling Radford that he was going to be put on trial. He’d get a trial every bit as fair as what a black man would get back home, he said, and the rest of the room laughed. All except for the other two white men, who were trying not to draw any attention.
While they were waiting, some of the black sailors couldn’t resist hassling Radford, pushing him around, getting in his face with insults, and finally punching him. Then a foam fog applicator, the same weapon that Pettus had seen used to beat the white sailor so badly, came flying down at him. It hit him hard in the arm once, then again squarely in the gut. He was left dazed and in a lot of pain. As it looked like he was about to get bashed in the face with the applicator, the “judge” stopped the assault.
“No! That is for Wilson to do.”
The men stopped their attack and just held him there as they waited for Wilson to show up. When he did, the judge asked him to confirm that this was the man who refused to serve him in the mess deck. Radford was standing there, grimacing in pain and scared.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Wilson said.
The black sailors started shouting that it was time for Radford’s beating, but the judge stopped them and called for quiet.
“All right, white boy, let’s see what you got to say for yourself. Are you prejudiced?”
“What?” Radford mumbled.
“Are you prejudiced?”
Radford hesitated before saying anything. “You come in to do a job on me, so just go ahead and get it over with, whatever you’re going to do. It doesn’t matter what I say.”
Another man in the crowd piped up, his voice oozing with a fake sincerity. “No, really. If you can come up with something that sounds good to us, we’ll let you go. Why wouldn’t you serve this black brother here? What have you got to say for yourself ?”
Radford, unwilling to play their game, still didn’t say anything. At this point, the white master-at-arms spoke up from where he had been trying to blend into the wall.
“Uh, can I just leave?”
The black sailors didn’t care about him. One said, “You better leave quick, before we beat all those tattoos off you,” so the master-at-arms ran away. Then they pushed the other white sailor out also. Radford was alone with the men seeking revenge.
The judge looked at Radford, waiting for his explanation, but he wasn’t offering one.
“Hang him,” the judge said calmly.
With that command, the crowd went wild. They pushed him over a table onto his back. He felt more punches and blows to his body, head, face, everywhere, as he was tossed about the room, off the table, onto the couch, all the while just trying to cover his head with his hands to block the worst of the blows. His efforts were futile. He felt the foam fog nozzle make solid contact with his head and the world started fading out. He felt blood all over him as he got lightheaded.
“He’s got a knife!”
Radford couldn’t tell who was shouting or who had a knife, but it didn’t much matter. He couldn’t defend himself anymore. He expected to feel the blade at any moment.
The man with a knife actually was a white sailor who had seen the attack from the corridor and brandished the knife but then ran off to save himself. That interruption brought the attack to an end, and the judge told the other men to throw Radford out. They tossed him out in the passageway and told him to find his own way to sick bay.
Radford lay there, bleeding and nearly unconscious, his cheekbone smashed, his jaw broken, his skull cracked open, a huge gash over one eye. His punishment for not serving a black sailor in the mess deck.
CHAPTER TEN
“IT’S REALLY HAPPENING”
Robert Keel had encountered one of the first groups of rampaging blacks earlier in the evening when he was in the aft mess deck before he was scheduled to go on duty, taking some time to write a letter home to his family.
He had ducked when the black man threw a bomb fin toward him and then he watched as the heavy metal skittered across a couple of tables, missing him. For a minute Keel had thought th
e other man was going to come after him, but then the black sailor took off to catch up with his buddies.
Keel hadn’t known what to make of the incident, but it wasn’t the first time he had seen seemingly random violence on the Kitty Hawk. Deciding not to report the assault as he didn’t want to draw any more wrath from the black sailors, he had picked up his letter and proceeded toward his post as a communications technician in damage control, the central area where officers and crew monitored the ship’s operation and managed emergencies. To get there, he had to pass through the hangar bay, where he encountered a large gathering of Marines, back on patrol after dispersing an earlier group of rioters there. Keel just kept his head down and continued on his way, but he couldn’t help notice that the Marines seemed jumpy and on high alert. They all had their batons out, some slapping them in their palms as they looked around nervously, eyeing everyone with an unusual intensity.
What the hell is going on? Keel wondered as he hustled to his post, where he found a similarly tense atmosphere. Damage control central is the primary engineering watch station, where the engineering officer on duty stands watch, assisted by technicians like Keel. They were responsible for maintaining the ship’s vital systems when the ship was under way, and they were especially important during any crisis aboard the carrier because they tracked reports of damage and oversaw the crew’s efforts to repair or work around any problems. With monitors showing images from the flight deck and other vital areas, and instruments showing the status of every key operating system, the men in damage control knew about as much about what was going on in the ship as anybody did. If the bridge and the forward bridge were both destroyed, the ship could be run from damage control. As Keel entered, he found the engineering officer in his usual spot, in a chair up on a raised platform where he could see all the boards, gauges, and men. Keel’s job was to act as the engineering officer’s “talker,” the crewman who relayed orders and other communications between the officer and the rest of the ship.
Keel sensed that this wasn’t just an ordinary night in damage control, as the engineering officer seemed a little on edge. Putting that together with what he had seen in the mess deck and the hangar bay, Keel figured there was some racial disturbance on the Kitty Hawk. But he wasn’t in any position to be asking questions. He couldn’t just ask the boss what the hell was going on. His job was to stand there and relay communications by phone, and he’d find out soon enough if anything was seriously wrong. For a while, it seemed that maybe his suspicions were off target. Damage control didn’t receive any reports of engineering problems. The monitors showed that the flight deck was secure, though Keel noticed that it was lighted brightly, which was unusual. He also thought he could see Marine patrols out on the flight deck, also unusual. But all the instruments showed that the Kitty Hawk was sailing to Yankee Station just fine, and there had been no announcements on the 1MC, the ship’s public address system, from the captain or the XO about any disturbances, so Keel thought maybe there was no reason to worry.
But then reports started coming in to control about fights in different parts of the ship. There wasn’t any substantive damage so far, so there was nothing for the engineering officer to handle yet. He was on alert, though, ready to respond to any sabotage. The bridge was keeping the engineering officer informed about the scope of the problem, and soon Keel understood that there was rioting in different parts of the ship, with serious concerns about sabotage and perhaps even black sailors trying to take control of the Kitty Hawk. The men on duty in damage control knew that Captain Townsend and XO Cloud had both gone to deal with the rioters, which Keel thought was a little odd.
If the rioters managed to disable any of the ship’s critical operating systems, Keel and the other men in damage control would go into high gear. For the moment, all they could do was wait and watch. Then damage control got a call from the bridge. It wasn’t an update on the situation; it was an unsettling question. Keel relayed the query to the engineering officer.
“Sir, the bridge wants to know if we’ve seen the captain.”
The officer looked at Keel with surprise. “No, we haven’t seen the captain.”
Keel relayed the reply to the bridge. “Damage control has not seen the captain.”
Okay, that was weird, Keel thought. Apparently the engineering officer thought it was weird too, though he would never say so. But Keel could tell just from the look on his face.
Keel continued standing watch. There was not much going on, just men monitoring all the dials and gauges, giving occasional reports to the engineering officer. After a while, there was another call from the bridge.
“Sir, the bridge is asking again if we’ve seen the captain.”
Now the engineering officer really looked puzzled, and that was not comforting to Keel or the others who overheard the exchange.
“No,” the officer replied slowly. “We have not seen the captain.”
Keel passed on the message again. “Negative, damage control has not seen the captain.”
Everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one could say it out loud. Where the hell is the captain? And why can’t the bridge find him? Just what the hell is going on?
They all continued with their jobs, with just the minimal conversation necessary when everything is fine on the carrier. Except they were all worried that maybe everything wasn’t really fine.
In a few minutes they heard the sound of the 1MC coming to life. On the 1MC circuit, the message would be heard in every nook and cranny of the huge ship. The voice was not one Keel immediately recognized; it wasn’t Captain Townsend or XO Cloud.
“Attention. Will the captain please call the bridge?” the voice said. It was calm sounding, though Keel thought he heard a bit of tension. “Repeating. Will the captain please call the bridge?”
Okayyyyy, now this is getting really strange.
Again Keel stood in silence as the men in damage control wondered what was going on. They can’t find the captain? What the fuck?
In just a few minutes, the same voice came on the 1MC again.
“Will the captain call the bridge? Will the captain call the bridge?”
Keel and the other men looked at each other, exchanging looks that said, Man, this can’t be good. Where the hell is the captain?
A few minutes later the voice was back on the 1MC. This time it sounded much more harried, concerned, frustrated.
“The captain will call the bridge! Immediately!”
Holy shit, Keel thought. For the next hour or so, as Keel was finishing his watch, he and the rest of the men in damage control wondered what exactly was going on with the Kitty Hawk. The situation was unusual; most times they knew more about the ship’s status than almost anyone else. But on this night they had heard only sketchy reports about violence in various parts of the ship, black sailors marauding, and the captain missing in action. Keel had plenty of time to stand there and work through all the scenarios in his mind, and he wondered if he was in the middle of a mutiny. Had they taken the captain? Could they really do that?
There’s got to be another explanation. There’s no way there could be enough men on the Hawk who would participate in a mutiny.
But if it’s not a mutiny, what the hell is going on?
AT THE SAME TIME that Keel was on duty in damage control, young white men throughout the ship were being torn out of their bunks and beaten with chains, wrenches, pipes, and hammers. They had no idea why they were being attacked, and they wondered why the leaders on the Kitty Hawk weren’t coming to their rescue. Groups of rioters roamed the ship, some more violent than others, all creating havoc and destroying property just for the hell of it. The ship’s store, where sailors could buy snacks, personal supplies, and other small items, was thoroughly looted.
As John Travers scrambled away from his berthing area, where he had taken a few punches in the face, he could see that the rioters were gathering forces. Different pockets of men, a few here and a dozen there, were joining
up and becoming a mob, the total always more dangerous than the sum of its parts. Travers stayed on the periphery of the group long enough to hear some of the men talking. Some had mentioned that they had started out in the forward mess deck, raising hell there before moving to the aft mess deck and joining up with the black men who were rioting there. Now they were planning to go back to their divisions and round up the black sailors they each knew. For the next four hours Travers stayed far enough away from the mob to avoid being attacked but usually close enough to tell which way it was going to move next.
Travers didn’t know which way to go, but he kept trying to stay a step ahead of the rioting sailors. Looking for somewhere to hide, he made his way to a compartment that housed a group of electricians, the men he would be working with after finishing his stint as a mess cook. He found several white electricians and one black electrician. The men didn’t pay much attention to his arrival because they were all discussing what to do with the black sailor, a man named Hooper. Travers just listened as Hooper told his white friends that he didn’t want any part of what was going on, and he planned to stay where he was.
“But, man, if they find you here and you don’t join them, they’re gonna jump you,” one of the white men said. Hooper nodded but didn’t say anything. He knew that was true.
“We have to hide Hooper. We can’t let them find him here,” the men decided.
A couple of the men took Hooper to another compartment, a small work area where he could wait out the violence and seal the hatch from the inside. Hooper stayed there alone for hours. The electricians were so nervous that Travers didn’t feel much safer with them, so he kept moving in search of a good hideout. He soon made his way up to the island, the structure that rises up from the flight deck and houses the bridge and other work areas. Radar 5, one of the radio rooms in which Travers hoped to work one day, was up there, but it was empty. That was fine with him; at this point, he just wanted to stay away from everyone. He didn’t know what was going on with the Kitty Hawk, and for all he knew, neither did anyone else. Why the hell aren’t they putting this thing down? Where’s the captain and the XO? Travers was content to be anywhere that the mob wasn’t. So he grabbed a life jacket from a locker nearby and put it on—falling off the flight deck is a constant concern on a carrier—then went out on an observation platform on the island, where he sat alone in the breeze for what seemed a long time, watching the waves and wondering what was going on. He had thought being alone would make him feel safe, but after a while it had the opposite effect. The not knowing, the wondering what was happening elsewhere, was worrying him.
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