When John Frum Came

by Bill Schroeder

  She stood in stunned silence. Johnny was a good boy. He had some crazy ideas about becoming an entertainer or something, but she was sure he would outgrow that. He spent all his money and his days off at the movies, and talked about wanting to go to Hollywood. He even told her that his dream was to make a Cowboy picture with nothing but colored actors.

  But she figured he would meet a nice girl and settle down to real life. He always did his work around the mansion ... he helped his parents out any way he was needed.

  “Jason!” she yelled. “Jason! Get in here.”

  Neither mother nor son moved as they looked firmly into each other’s eyes. The door from the dining room swung open and an older black man in a butler’s uniform came in.

  “What are you shrieking about, woman. The Lady will hear you. You know she likes to take a nap this time of day,” he said.

  “Johnny says he’s not going to serve dinner. He’s goin’ out with his friends, he says.”

  The older man asked, “Why are you setting your mother off like this? You know better. Get the silverware out of the breakfront, and start wiping it down.”

  “I mean it, Daddy. I’m not going to be here this evening. It’s my last night, and I want to celebrate with my friends.”

  “Last night? What the hell are you talking about, boy? What are you celebrating? We have a dinner to put on.” The old man started to fold napkins while he talked.

  “I joined the Navy, Daddy. I have to be down at the train station tomorrow morning,” he announced.

  All activity ceased. It was as though he had said something in Chinese and they were trying to figure out what he meant. When he found his senses, the elder Bartlett said, “You enlisted in the Navy? They don’t let Negroes into the Navy. Somebody is pulling your leg, boy.”

  “No,” John said. “I read it in the Boston Globe yesterday, so I went down to the Navy Recruitment booth at Scully Square and volunteered. They gave me a hard time at first, but they accepted my application. Tomorrow I leave for Boot Camp.”

  The two older people reached for each other and embraced. They both cried like they never had before.

  Like everyone else, John Bartlett had seen a number of war movies. It was during an English film about a valiant destroyer that he decided to join the Navy. He wanted to be one of the courageous gunners on any kind of ship. They were the ones who gave the Nazi U-Boats hell when they surfaced after attacking a convoy. Like any kid of 19, he had no fear of death. He saw only the glory of carrying the day for the good guys.

  ***

  The Chase Islanders were very curious about the strange equipment Yani’s Witman had brought with him. Every day they would squat around the edges of the clearing and watch McDuff operate his radio equipment with Yani’s help at the generator. A cross member had been nailed to a tall tree at the rear of the camp to act as an antenna. It gave the impression of being a giant cross erected at the highest point on the island beside the rim of the volcano. McDuff liked the effect. He had not given up Christianity, just the official teaching of it.

  Since most of those present had seen Ooma get an electrical shock from the wires coming off the generator, they were anxious to know more about the phenomenon. Yani told McDuff of their interest and he spoke to a group of men who watched him make his noontime transmission.

  “Yani turns the wheel, and it causes electric power to flow through the wires to the radio,” he said. He held a terminal in each hand and demonstrated how a tiny blue spark jumped across the gap. “This power goes into the telegraph key, and I can send and receive messages from Port Moresby.” He turned to Yani and said, “Try to explain that to them, if you can.”

  Yani stopped cranking the generator and said, “My machine makes magic power. The magic power goes through these ...” he sought a word in the local language, but there was none. Since metal did not occur naturally on the island, copper, steel and iron became tin, as in tinken. “Magic power goes through tin vines. Big Man Duff gets messages from other Witmen through tin vines.”

  “I want to feel magic power like Ooma did,” one of the bolder warriors said, taking the wires in his hand. He was adamant about it, and McDuff understood without an interpreter.

  Let him feel it,” he said to Yani with a slight smirk. Yani saw the amusement in it and began rotating the pedals slowly, gradually stepping up the power. But much to his surprise, the warrior held on as long as he could. Finally, he let go with a yell. But, it was one of triumph, not of pain or fear.

  “Now I will also get messages from spirits,“ he said, strutting back and forth along the pathway. He spied the roll of copper wire from which the aerial had been made and said, “I would like a bracelet made from the tin vine.”

  Yani relayed the message to McDuff who saw no harm in humoring the man. He snipped off a length of wire, wrapped it loosely around his wrist, and pinched it in place with his pliers.

  The warrior was delighted, and led the column of native men down the path to the village. There everyone marveled at his newfound spiritual gift. But it was only the beginning. The next morning practically every man in the village was lined up at the camp to receive his electric shock and spirit bracelet.

  ***

  When they arrived at the Great Lakes Training Center, Bartlett found that he and six other black recruits were pulled out of the formation and marched to the barracks they would occupy. It was separate from the buildings occupied by the white boys who had arrived with them from Boston.

  A tough-looking Seaman First Class called them to attention, and proceeded to explain how they were to respond to the various commands — Attention! At ease! Present arms. He marched them to a supply depot and everyone drew the uniforms and equipment they would need. After that, he told them to clean up the building they would be living in. He would return in an hour to see how they were doing.

  As soon as the sailor in charge of them left, one of the men in the group, Sam, said, “You know, I was afraid it would be like this.”

  “Like what?” Bartlett said.

  “Segregation, boy. Didn’t you ever live down south? I left South Carolina because I was sick of Jim Crow, and I think we are in for more Crow than we can stand,” he said.

  The others agreed. John Bartlett naively said, “Hell, they can’t do that. This is the Navy, man. That’s just in civilian life.”

  Larry, a street-wise hustler who joined to get away from a police warrant said, “Johnny. You is about to find out what it feels like to be the first nigger on line. They don’t know what to do with us, so they gonna give us lots of shit.”

  ***

  It was a very small dinner party by the standards of Francis X. Bartlett, III; only six couples. The men had retired to their customary drawing room in the spacious Marblehead mansion for their obligatory cigars and brandy. They were all executives of Xavier Shipping Enterprises, and all related to each other in one way or another.

  Jason, the butler served the brandy, and melted into the woodwork while they talked. The eldest member of the family, and Chairman of XSE raised his glass in a toast: “Gentlemen, to our leader in the fight against the Axis Forces, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” Amid a few “here, heres” they all sipped their drinks.

  Francis held up an official looking document. “In case you have never seen one before, this is a direct commission naming yours truly as a Rear Admiral in the United States Navy.” He paused for a moment, and added, “Those of you who thought we were pissing our money away when we backed him for a third term, please take note.”

  “Christ, Francis, you were unbearable when they made you Commodore of the Marblehead Yacht Club,” his brother called out. “I hope they don’t put you in charge of any ships named The Bounty. The Navy will have its first mutiny in a hundred years.” Everyone laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Ed,” Bartlett said good-naturedly, “they’re sending me to Australia as Chief Liaison with the British Forces. The only ship I have anything to do with directly will be the one th
at takes me to the South Pacific. You just make sure that there’s an excess on the books for XS Enterprises when I come back.”

  “We’ll do fine, providing your friend, Roosevelt, remembers to compensate us properly for all our Lend-lease arrangements,” the XSE V.P. of Finance answered.

  “I can’t say that I envy you, Francis,” said one of his cousins. “From what I hear, those islands out there are the armpit of the Earth. Where will you live?”

  “We don’t have the details all worked out just yet,” he said, “but I assure you that Flag Rank Officers manage to live like white men, regardless of where they are assigned. I will be putting together a cadre of my own staff of officers during the next few days. Now that Frankie, as if you didn’t know, has graduated from the Academy, I hope to have him assigned to work for me as soon as possible.”

  Bill Ryan, vice president of XSE’s planning, said, “I’ve already worked up a list of things I think you’ll need that the Navy might be a little slow in getting out there. With luck, it will arrive at Port Moresby before you do.”

  Francis threw him a thank-you salute.

  ***

  The waters around Chase Island were undisturbed for weeks, until suddenly one morning the rising sun revealed a flotilla of Japanese Navy ships steaming in the direction of the island Leslie Gale had identified as Guadalcanal. McDuff spotted them as he walked to the edge of the clearing where the stone shelf dropped off as a sheer cliff above the ocean. He ran back to his tent to get his binoculars.

  “Yani,” he called. “Look to the North. Can you see all the Japanese ships?”

  Without intending to be comical, he circled his fingers a round his eyes and looked toward the far off island. “Yes, sir, I see them. I think there are two hands of them,” he said, using the native method of counting ten. “Maybe more.”

  The Witman looked intently at the silhouettes on the water, and made notes on a small lined pad. “Fire up the generator. I have to get this to Port Moresby as soon as possible.” In a few minutes, he was on the air reporting three battleships, one aircraft carrier, four destroyers and at least four freighters — probably troop carriers.

  To the utter amazement of the Chase Islanders, a squadron of Japanese fighter planes from the aircraft carrier crossed over the island. They flew at an altitude of about 300 feet, engines roaring. The people were terror stricken. They had never seen an airplane before, not even off in the distance. These were without a doubt Hevehe, demons that had sprung from the depths of the ocean — which everyone knew was the nest of monsters.

  Ooma led the delegation to the Coast Watchers’ camp, to seek answers from Yani and Big Man Duff. “What kind of monsters are these,” Ooma asked. “How do we keep them from carrying off our people?”

  “These are airplanes,” McDuff said. “They come from those Japfella ships out there on the horizon.” He pointed to the ships that were now just dots. In frustration, he said, “Yani, you were on an airplane. You flew to Australia. You tell them what they are. I don’t know where to begin.”

  Yani had grown to love being a fountain of knowledge. Everyone realized that he had become a powerful shaman while he was away from Chase Island, maybe even smarter and stronger than his father, Ooma. He mounted a boulder and encouraged the group to fill what had been a taboo area until recently. His ease and familiarity with the formerly sacred clearing had put most of the younger members of the village at ease. They gathered around him now.

  “When I was on the Witman’s island I went to Heaven on one of the strange creatures that flew over us today,” he said. They had heard about Heaven from the Witman the day he arrived.

  “Did you ride on its back?” someone asked.

  “No. I was inside. They are like big bird’s eggs. They climb up through the sky and past the clouds. They live in Heaven with Jesus. I went with Negeb and some Blackfellas from other islands. When it got to Heaven the egg hatched and we all got out.”

  He had told of his visit to Heaven on many occasions, but had never told of this aspect before. They had not seen an airplane before, so he had not gone into detail.

  “So they are birds,” Ooma said.

  “Yes,” Yani agreed, “but only the Witmen knows how to catch them. Only the Witman can tame them. I think the ones that flew over us were wild ones. Big Man Duff says they come from the Japfella boats, but I find that hard to believe. I think he does not know and does not wish to say so.”

  “Can we catch one?” Ooma asked.

  Yani relayed the question to McDuff, who was amused. He had not understood any of the preceding discussion, and facetiously answered, “I don’t know. Maybe we could put out decoys to attract them.”

  “What are decoys?” asked Yani.

  Sorry he had gotten into this tangential discussion, McDuff proceeded to explain the finer points of duck hunting in New England. He told his protégé how the decoys were carved out of wood, and placed where flocks of migrating waterfowl could spot them.

  While Yani roughly translated the explanation, McDuff decided it was time to climb to the volcano’s rim to get a better view of the disappearing naval task force.

  Chapter 27

  At breakfast one morning Rose Bartlett, the cook, was serving bacon and eggs to Rear Admiral F.X. Bartlett, III, USN.

  “Good morning, Mr. Francis,” she said. “I see you’re wearing your new uniform. I can’t believe you’re a full-fledged Admiral. It’s so exciting.”

  “Good morning, Rose. Yes, it is sort of exciting. Don’t tell anybody in the family, but I am glad to dump the company on Ed. He’s always wanted to be in charge, anyway.”

  “But now you’re gonna be responsible for something bigger than just a shipping company. Like they say, ‘There’s a war on.’ I hope you will come back safe to us after it’s all over.”

  “No fear. I’m really only just trading my desk in Boston for one on the other side of the world. When all is said and done, it’s still only a desk job.”

  She poured his coffee and said, “You know my boy, Johnny, up and joined the Navy, too.”

  “Is that right? I guess I haven’t seen him around here for a while. I wondered what became of him. Where is he?”

  “Well, he’s out at the Great Lakes Training Center, but he’s not too happy,” she said.

  “I hear that boot camp can be tough for some of the young kids. He’ll get used to it. What is he training to be?”

  “Well, that’s the trouble, Mr. Francis, they’re not training him to be anything. He’s been in the Navy for a month and he hasn’t even started Boot Camp.”

  The Admiral looked up from his eggs. “In fact, I have a letter from him right here,” she said, reaching into her apron pocket. She didn’t wait for his response; she read:

  Dear Mama:

  The other fellas and I just finished another detail in the mess hall, mopping down the floor. That makes 16 times we have pulled that detail in one week. I really prefer to get on the painting details, since they are a little more interesting.

  Still no word when we will begin our training. Joe Boznik, the sailor who is in charge of the colored detail, says he has no idea what they have in mind. There are not enough Negro sailors to start a training company, and he also says that even if we get trained, where will they assign us? None of the ships have separate quarters for colored sailors, and they sure as heck aren’t going to let us bunk with the white guys.

  I wanted to be a gunner, but I’ll be lucky if I ever set foot on a ship of any kind...

  Rose folded the letter and said, “The rest is personal stuff.”

  “That’s too bad, Rose. But I doubt that I can do anything about it. I’m an Admiral, all right, but I have nothing to do with that part of the Navy,” he said between sips of coffee.

  She was not done. “I hear that you arranged for Frankie to be assigned to your staff out in the Pacific Ocean.”

  Bartlett read her message at once. “Yes, he’s an Annapolis graduate, and has been made a Secon
d Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. I hope to have him as my Operations Officer.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the boys could serve together, considering how they grew up together and all.” She was referring to the unusual arrangement under which Johnny was included in Frankie’s private tutoring sessions. A group of Boston College students had served as teachers for Frankie and his sisters. At Frankie’s insistence, Johnny, although the son of the cook and butler, was included in the lessons. This made it unnecessary for him to attend public school until Frankie went off to Prep School before the Academy. As a result, Johnny’s education was better than that of an average white child, much less a black one of the 1930s.

  Admiral Bartlett was beginning to feel ill at ease. He didn’t like a servant trying to wheedle a favor out of him. “I don’t think it would work too well, Rose.”

  She played her trump card. “You mean about the confusion in names? There might be too many Bartletts? Well it seemed like a good idea 80 years ago, when my husband’s family named their children after your family. Being slaves and all that, they had no other family name to assume. Your Grandfather thought it was a good idea then. I guess times have changed.”

  Francis X. Bartlett III gritted his teeth. This was all code for “We haven’t forgotten that my husband’s father and you may have the same paternal ancestor. Letting the children assume the Bartlett name was a concession to that possibility.”

  ***

  Seaman First Class Joe Boznik called out the names of the men in his permanent work detail. In twos and threes, they were marched away by sailors from various departments on the base to the locations where they would be working for the day. After about ten minutes, the last of his friends marched away to the cadence of “Drip-po, drop-po, wring out the mop-po. Left, o; right, o left.”

  “Well, Johnny Boy, it looks like it’s just you an me left. I got orders to bring you back to the C.O.,” Boznik said, wrinkling his forehead. “What the hell did you do to get called to the Old Man’s Office?”