In the Shadow of Alabama

by Judy Reene Singer

  “The pool is off-limits to colored servicemen,” somebody read from a notice pinned on the bulletin board. “The baseball diamond is off-limits. The airmen’s club is off-limits. You will restrict yourselves to the colored PX. You may not enter the white PX under any circumstances. Upper mess hall is off-limits. Lower mess hall is for coloreds.”

  “Wonder if we’re going to get any dinner,” Willie mused to the reader, “or is food off-limits, too?” There was a bitter chuckle all around.

  * * *

  The colored men were allowed to sit in the six back rows of the auditorium for Orientation. By the time Willie and August got there, those seats were filled. Willie cast his eye around; there were a few seats vacant in the middle, but he understood the South now, understood standard procedure, that he couldn’t sit in the middle of white soldiers, that he had to stand in the back, away from the ceiling fans. He positioned himself by the door. August stood next to him and folded his arms. Rage prickled against the back of Willie’s neck.

  “There are some empty seats left,” he muttered to August. “We should be able to sit down there.”

  “I don’t mind standing,” August replied nervously. “Maybe we can catch us a breeze.” But any breeze that came through the door felt like the exhaust from a car, and Willie was soaked with sweat in minutes. He wondered whether the showers in the colored barracks were working.

  * * *

  Major Earnest Dugger, who had introduced himself at the train station, welcomed them, talked about the base, told them it was the place the Wright Brothers opened the first training field for civilian flyers, that they could be proud of its important role in the war effort, that in these dark times, the world was depending on their efforts. After an hour and a half, the men were dismissed. The colored soldiers were given a sheet of paper as they walked out the door. Willie scanned it. Nothing new, it basically restated the rules that were hanging in the barracks. They couldn’t join the USO club, intramural basketball, or even attend base movies unless they wanted to stand in the back. No, no, and no, the list went on.

  “Dispensary is limited for colored soldiers,” Willie read aloud to August, who had barely glanced at his paper, “unless there is a serious problem.”

  “What’s a ‘serious problem’?” August asked.

  “Verge of death, I guess,” Willie bit off. “Try not to get there.”

  * * *

  Orders were that newcomers had to report to First Sergeant John P. Hogarth for assignments. Willie and August waited patiently in line, in the melting heat, while the white soldiers went first, two at a time. Willie held on to his orders, Base Security, they read, and he stood in the long queue outside Hogarth’s office, wondering whether he would be issued a rifle. He kind of liked the idea of a rifle slung smartly over his shoulder. He had gotten top ratings in basic training for marksmanship. He knew he had a good eye and a steady hand. He thought he might ask August to take a photo of him with his rifle and send it home. He knew his mother would frame it. It would look awfully good on the piano in the living room.

  The line was moving. Base Security, he mused. He wondered what part of the base he would be guarding.

  “Make sure you go in with me, Willie,” August whispered to him. “So’s you can ’splain things to me.”

  Willie nodded. “What are your orders?” he asked.

  “We ain’t supposed to open them,” August said. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  “They said you could open them when you got to Gunter,” Willie said patiently. “We’re definitely at Gunter.”

  August pulled the envelope from his pocket and slit it open with his fingernail. He handed the paper to Willie. “You tell me,” he said, and Willie realized that he couldn’t read.

  “Cook,” he read off.

  August laughed, then stopped. “I hopes they can teach me, ’cause I never cooked nothin’.”

  * * *

  The line shuffled along, two by two, until there were only a few left. The colored soldiers, all of them, so far, had come out of Hogarth’s office to announce they had been assigned to Fourth Aviation Squadron, whatever that was. Willie wondered what it was, but knew he wouldn’t be joining them, because he was heading for Base Security, with probably extra training. Well, he would soon find out. He was next in line.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Hogarth’s voice rang out as the two previous soldiers emerged from his office. “On the double.”

  August and Willie entered together. Hogarth was sitting behind a desk reading some papers. He was a solid man, short and muscular, with a graying light brown bristly crew cut, a slight pug nose, and gray eyes that peered out from under a high, refined forehead. An imposing sign in front of him, made of old shell casings, read FIRST SERGEANT JOHN P. HOGARTH. Mementos from World War I were arranged neatly on a shelf behind, including a steel helmet with a large gash across the front, and a commendation for the Distinguished Service Cross, framed in black. On the wall was a faded photo of Hogarth’s old company when he fought at Château-Thierry. Willie waited, quietly looking around, waiting for Hogarth to acknowledge them.

  August had stiffened to attention and held a salute; Willie just stood motionless. The sergeant barely glanced at them, but Willie knew he was enjoying August’s frozen salute. They waited some more.

  “Y’all don’t salute a noncom officer,” Hogarth finally said to August. August dropped his salute and looked down at his shoes, embarrassed. Hogarth gave him a beatific smile, and spoke slowly, as if to a child. “But y’all do stand at attention until y’all are told otherwise.”

  August stiffened to attention once again. Hogarth leaned back in his chair and studied the two men before gesturing to his desk. “Let me see your orders. That always comes first. Y’all should know that by now.”

  Willie tossed his orders onto the desk while August leaned forward and extended his papers, holding them out in front of him. Hogarth glanced down at his desk. “Put them there.” He pointed to a spot in front of him. August placed his orders carefully, right on the spot, and Hogarth opened them, looked through them without expression.

  “Now, I wonder who’s who here,” he drawled. “All you colored boys kinda look alike, doncha.” He leaned forward. “You’re supposed to say your names.” The steady gray eyes landed on August.

  “August Woodrow Randolph, sir—uh—Sergeant.”

  Hogarth leaned back in his chair. “And next you say, ‘Reporting for duty, Sergeant’.”

  August got flustered and saluted again. Then repeated, “Private August Woodrow Randolph reporting for duty, Sergeant.”

  “Y’all finally got it right, boy.” Hogarth looked to Willie next.

  “Private First Class William Joseph Jackson reporting for duty.”

  “Good.” Hogarth smiled benevolently at them both. “Good for you. I like my colored boys trained up. All right. At ease.” Willie bit the inside of his cheek and stood at ease.

  Hogarth read through their papers. “William Joseph Jackson? This here paper says you’re an educated nigra. Is that right?”

  “I got some college,” Willie said tightly.

  “Well, good for you, Willie Joe,” Hogarth said. “I like my nigras educated. They don’t make too many mistakes that way.” He put his hands behind his head. “I got just the right assignment for you. Fourth Squadron. Eight-twenty-third Quartermaster Company. Hangar Five.”

  “Base Security?” Willie asked, wondering how all the colored men could have the same assignment.

  “Housekeeping,” Hogarth said.

  “My papers say Base Security.”

  Hogarth leaned toward him, his gray eyes turning hard and cold like the cement in a Harlem sidewalk. “We call it Security, but it’s maintenance. You’ll be cleaning the planes.” He nodded to August. “Both you boys. Housekeeping. That’s probably a damn sight better than what most of you are used to. Dismissed.”

  * * *

  Willie stepped into the hot orange sun outside, August right
behind him, greatly relieved. “Glad I don’t have to cook, because that would sure be awful for them that’s eatin’ it,” he said, following Willie to a group of colored soldiers who were being yelled into formation by another sergeant, a white one. “Glad we get to be together.”

  “Looks like everyone’s gonna be together,” Willie said. “Looks like we’re all going to the same place.”

  “Suits me fine,” said August. “You can’t get into trouble when you with you own.”

  * * *

  “This is the wash rack, where the planes get cleaned.” The white sergeant who marched them there gestured to Hangar Five behind him. “Those are the BT-13s. The Vultee Valiants.” He pointed to a small but sturdy-looking plane that was being pushed into the hangar. It had tandem cockpits, one behind the other, and a single prop. Its clear plastic canopy was flipped up like it was hailing them. “Those are the training planes,” the sergeant went on. “They teach the flyboys how to handle the bombers. I will be handing out protective gear. You will put it on before you proceed into the hangar.”

  The men slipped into gloves and boots and goggles and overalls, in addition to head coverings with face masks. They stood like kids waiting to go out into a snowstorm, walking with arms out to the side, legs stiff.

  “Watch the steam, boys.” The sergeant beckoned them inside.

  Willie and August followed the other men into the hangar. Base Security! Willie got it. How would it look if all the coloreds on base were listed as Housekeeping? How would it look in Washington? So the name got changed, some orders said Security, some said Cook, some said Communication. But they were all cleaning men. He got it now.

  * * *

  If hell had a name, Willie decided, it would be called the wash rack. It reeked of benzene and hot wiring and burning metal, the searing fumes made unbearable as they rose into wispy vapors and hung white in the stinking air. Though it was a long, narrow building, it was so filled with steam and noise, of chemical clouds and shrieking tools, it seemed nothing else could fit. Around the periphery were metal grates placed over open trenches, which served as the sewer system. The chemicals and water washed down through the grates into an underground holding tank, which was supposed to be pumped out regularly. It hadn’t been and was doing a poor job of containing the fluids from the floor, unfortunately maintaining the reek.

  One after another, the Vultees were being pushed inside the hangar, where a team of four quickly disassembled them and sent them on to the next station. Ratchets squealed against frozen bolts, the sheet-metal skin falling away in great clangs. The dynamotor was dropped onto a dolly for special work; the transmitter, receiver, all the radio parts were deposited on rolling carts and taken away to another room, the radio room, where they would be cleaned and refurbished. What remained in the wash rack was just the skeleton of the Vultee, like the metal bones of a dinosaur.

  “Just like cleaning a chicken,” the sergeant yelled over the noise. “Skin ’em, guts out, wash ’em up.”

  They followed what was left of one plane to the corner of the hangar. A huge steam generator hissed and spit at them like a livid cat. The hoses that hung from its sides quivered with live steam.

  It was all fast work; you had to move fast. The men rushed past the new recruits, running almost, to get things done. Planes were taken apart after every twenty hours of flight time, then put back into service. There’s a war on, haven’t you heard? On the double! On the double! The men rushed the plane under the hoses, spraying it clean, filling the air with more benzene mist, rushing it to the next station, where it was dried.

  A figure, dressed in hazard gear, stepped out of the thick steam and walked toward them.

  “I’ll leave you with Sergeant Shinestone,” said their sergeant, gesturing to the figure. “He’s in charge here. He’ll explain procedures.”

  “Schoenstein,” a voice from inside the protective face piece corrected him.

  “Shinestone, Schoenstein. It all sounds alike to me.” The first sergeant shrugged. “Here are your new men.” He turned on his heel and left the hangar.

  “All right, men, follow along.” Schoenstein led them closer to the wash rack. The stench was overwhelming, even through the masks. Willie pressed the mask closer to his nose, wondering whether it was even working.

  “Live steam.” Schoenstein pointed. “There’s a valve on the hose, mixes the steam with the benzene solution. Real volatile stuff. Take off your skin in half a second. Stay alert.” He walked to the next station; the men followed.

  This bay dried the plane with a set of air hoses. “If they don’t dry,” Schoenstein yelled over the noise, “we can piggyback some carbon tetrachloride into the nozzle. Supposed to dry them better. Just don’t breathe it. The heat turns carbon tet into phosgene gas.”

  “Looks like we don’t need to go overseas to die,” Willie remarked to August, who nodded vigorously.

  “Yep, I’m glad I ain’t going overseas,” he agreed with Willie, apparently not comprehending what he said.

  “I’ll be leaving. Going to the front,” Schoenstein yelled at them. “Your new sergeant is being processed and will be taking charge at fifteen hundred hours. Should be here in a minute or two.”

  The men stood at ease, waiting for the new sergeant, watching the escaping sprays of carbon tet misting the air, falling on them like summer rain, the sweet, hot smell penetrating their masks. They watched as a plane was pushed through, dried off, then pushed down to another bay for assembly, only to be replaced by another. Everything moved fast.

  “You work in teams of four,” Schoenstein yelled. “Two new men will work with two regulars. When you get it down, we’ll reshuffle the crews. Scheduling—” He was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. The new sergeant had arrived, already dressed in the protective suit. He spoke to Schoenstein for a few minutes; they shook hands. Schoenstein walked him through and gave him a thick booklet of procedures before turning the new men over to him. Then Schoenstein left.

  “We’ve seen enough for today,” the new sergeant announced. “You start tomorrow at oh eight hundred.” He held up the booklet. “I got some reading to do.”

  They moved to the hangar doors, shuffling behind the new sergeant. He led them out into the burning Alabama sun. Willie didn’t think he would ever appreciate being in the sun, but even through his gear, it felt cool to him.

  “Remove your mask and identify yourselves,” the new sergeant ordered the men, holding up a list of personnel to check off. Willie pulled his mask from his face. The air felt like the caress of a lover against his skin, cool, gentle. He took a sweet breath, then realized the sergeant was waiting for him to speak.

  “Private First Class William Joseph Jackson,” he said. The new sergeant, still masked, nodded, then turned to the next man.

  August also pulled off his mask and headpiece. “Private August Woodrow Randolph, sir.”

  They went down the line. Each man removing his mask and helmet, each face glistening black under the Alabama sun—

  “Corporal Leon Washington Hamilton, sir.”

  “Corporal Charlie Hobbs, sir.”

  —until they all stood there, their headgear in their hands, waiting. The new sergeant pulled off his own mask and headpiece, and looked at them. Forty-three colored men looked back. Willie chuckled to himself. It was Brooklyn. Sergeant Martin Fleischer. First Schoenstein, now Fleischer. He got it right away. A Jew leading a whole squadron of colored men. Leading a wash rack squadron. A squadron of cleaning men. After all, it was Alabama. He guessed not a good place for Jews, and certainly not for coloreds. He watched Fleischer’s face as he glanced at his new men, glanced at each black face staring back at him, watched Fleischer’s expression very carefully.

  “Hello,” Fleischer said, looking first puzzled, then comprehending, as things began to register. “Welcome to the wash rack, men. Looks like we’ll be working together.”

  Yeah, Willie thought, now they both got it.

  Chapter 12

/>   “Know anything about birds?” Fleischer was holding out something tiny and intensely pink in the middle of his palm. The morning sun, not yet raging, sat low in a corner of the sky; the airfield was still obscured by a soft fog that hadn’t yet burned off. Fleischer had just taken roll call and his squadron was still at attention, stiffly lined up just outside the wash rack. He suddenly realized this. “Oh. At ease, men.” They swung their legs apart and clasped their hands behind their backs. “Birds?” he repeated, looking around. August shuffled forward to study the wriggling pink object in Fleischer’s hand.

  “That’s just hatched, Sarge,” he said.

  Fleischer gave him a puzzled look. “I thought they got hatched in the spring, not the summer.”

  August shook his head. “Second clutch, Sarge. Around this time, they lay again. I seen it.” They both stared at the creature. Its head wobbled sideways, too heavy for its body. Its black eyes lay just underneath transparent eyelids, pink skin so fragile, you could see its yellow gizzard, its ballooning blue-gray stomach, its heart a black dot, beating just under Fleischer’s thumb.

  “Prob’ly fell down from somewhere, Sarge,” August added. They both glanced up at the roofline of the building, and sure enough, stuffed into the overhang was a strew of small, thin twigs woven with strips of rag, used to wipe down the planes.

  “Stupid place for a nest,” Fleischer muttered. He looked down again at his hand. “What the hell are we going to do with it?”