The Golden Thirteen

by Dan Goldberg

  He traveled to New York City; New Orleans; Davenport, Iowa; Corpus Christi, Texas; and Norfolk, Virginia, promoting the contributions of black men, the segregated service schools, and the Great Lakes athletic teams.10

  When he began, White’s superiors complained that the black press seemed to cover only stories that made the Navy look bad.

  “Do you ever offer them good stories?” White asked.

  No, he was told, but no one was offered good stories, not the Jewish press, not the German press.

  White called a few reporters working for large black newspapers and asked why the coverage appeared so negative.

  We’re busy, they said, and we assume if the Navy has a good story, it would be shared with the press. They weren’t about to waste precious hours investigating stories that the Navy should by all rights be bragging about.

  White solved the problem by providing a steady supply of copy that made the Navy look good, helped by a staff “that would make good reading out of stories that really weren’t all that great.”11

  Captain M. Collins recognized that White, the only black officer assigned to the Ninth Naval District, “has been in an unusually difficult position,” and Collins was impressed with how well White performed. “He has conducted himself very well and has been instrumental in improving the attitude of the negro press toward the Navy,” Collins told his superiors.12

  Those comments were typical of the performance reports the newly commissioned officers received wherever they went.

  Ensign Sublett’s “personal and military character is excellent.”13

  Ensign Arbor “exhibited good judgment, [with] a pleasing personality and ability to direct enlisted personnel.”14

  Ensign Cooper was “capable, conscientious and cooperative.”15

  The Navy’s brain trust in Washington took notice. Black officers, it seemed, were no different than white officers, and their exemplary performance gave the Navy confidence to do more.

  On May 15, 1944, Edward Swain Hope, a member of the Civil Engineer Corps, became the Navy’s first black lieutenant. Nine other staff officers—chaplains, dentists, doctors—soon followed.16

  Adlai Stevenson’s vision was realized eight months after he first suggested to Knox that the Navy commission black men. The second round of black officers proved just as capable as the first batch, which meant the Navy was ready to take another baby step.

  At the end of June, Dalton Baugh became the Navy’s first black chief engineer when he was ordered to Boston and assigned to the USS Migrant, a schooner conducting antisubmarine patrols along the northern New England coast.

  Phil Barnes, who was first assigned to work in the outgoing unit at Great Lakes, joined Baugh two weeks later.

  Barnes had never been to sea, and this hampered his performance at first, but he made himself useful wherever he could. He helped in the commissary, which everyone was grateful for as the ship’s experienced cook had just been reassigned, leaving in his stead a much younger cook whose organization, ability, and cuisine left much to be desired. Barnes proved a quick study and after only a few months was deemed a competent watch officer.

  Jesse Arbor and Charles Lear were the first of the group to be sent outside the continental United States, arriving at the Manana Naval Barracks adjacent to the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard on July 29.

  The officers who remained at Great Lakes—Sam Barnes, Reginald Goodwin, and Dennis Nelson—proved more than capable of handling the white petty officers and enlisted men who served under them.17

  Goodwin returned to the selection office and performed so well that he was eventually placed in charge of it.18 “His intelligence and judgment are exceptional, his personality and leadership outstanding,” Commander William Turek wrote in Goodwin’s performance report. “His military bearing, neatness and poise are evident to a high degree.”19

  Goodwin shared an apartment in Lake Forest with Sam Barnes, who was placed in charge of the recreation and athletic program for the three black camps: Camp Robert Smalls, Camp Moffett, and Camp Lawrence. The pair drove to base each day in Goodwin’s 1941 Pontiac Coupe, not a bad way to get to work.

  Barnes arranged the company competitions for softball and basketball, setting the schedule for the drill hall so that it was available for special events when needed. He created and administered a two-week course on venereal disease control. The Navy figured black sailors might heed warnings from an officer who looked like they did, an example of what would later be called cultural competency.20 These were some of the most fun times Barnes had in the Navy, and for decades he kept a photo of himself drilling a field full of cadets.

  Nelson was placed in charge of the remedial reading program at Camp Robert Smalls, where he helped formalize the curriculum. The program in 1942 had 200 students. By the summer of 1944, when Nelson was in charge, there were 1,400 enrollees at any given time.21

  Nelson referred to himself as the “Dean of KU,” for Knucklehead University.22 Though he made light of his role, he took it extremely seriously and was a driving force behind the education of thousands of men who spent two hours a night, five nights a week, and two hours on Saturday afternoon learning to read and write.

  Attending literacy classes was in addition to their regular drilling. The instructors were all volunteers. At the end of the six-week course, 72 percent of the men had attained a fourth-grade reading level.

  More than just providing basic literacy, the coursework gave these sailors a heretofore unknown civic pride. Many registered and voted for the first time in their lives, using absentee ballots.23

  Nelson, ever the peacock, drove to and from work each day in a blue Mercury convertible. He washed that car every morning and almost always had the top down, even in the winter. Shore patrol routinely chased Nelson around the base, reminding him that the speed limit was fifteen miles per hour.

  “My car won’t go that slow,” Nelson replied.24

  Unlike Sam Barnes, who enjoyed his new role, Nelson chafed under Armstrong, who he felt took every opportunity to “embarrass and belittle them before other officers and enlisted men.”25

  Barnes, who held Armstrong in higher regard, thought it ironic that Nelson felt that way because the two were so alike. Both were cocksure and so supremely confident in their own abilities that they were often unaware of how condescending they could seem to others.26

  Nelson’s gripes with the commander weren’t all superficial or driven only by personality. Armstrong insisted on keeping the new ensigns out of the officers’ club. He worried that a fight could break out and racial strife would diminish the likelihood that the Navy would commission other black officers.

  Lieutenant Paul Richmond thought much the same. “For Pete’s sake, you want to be successful,” he said. “Now don’t be bringing up a lot of things that would quash the program.” His orders weren’t explicit like Armstrong’s, but he made it clear it “wouldn’t be wise for them [to push for entry into officers’ clubs] . . . foolish actually, because they would be jeopardizing the program.”27

  Nelson didn’t buy that logic. Armstrong’s order was a “disastrous blow to the group,” because it further marginalized black officers, he said. “And the only opportunity for friendly contacts and to meet [white officers] on common ground was forbidden.”28

  Nelson’s opinion of Armstrong wasn’t unique among the first black officers, but it wasn’t held unanimously either.

  Syl White, Sam Barnes, and Goodwin all thought highly of Armstrong, whereas Arbor, Nelson, and Martin detested his attitude toward African Americans.

  Armstrong’s actions provided enough evidence for both sides to believe they had the correct view. He could glorify the contributions of African Americans and tout them as inspiring role models, while simultaneously justifying segregation and exclusion.

  The very same month that he insisted the officers’ club remain for whites only, he commissioned twelve large paintings depicting the history of African Americans in the Navy, and ordered
them displayed in the lounge of the Camp Robert Smalls recreation building. One showed Scipio and Cato, two black men who fought in the Revolutionary War battle between the Bonhomme Richard and a British frigate, the Serapis. Other paintings portrayed the Battle of Lake Erie, Robert Smalls, and Dorie Miller.29

  But all those men were dead. The living heroes, right there in Camp Robert Smalls, were shown little respect. The new ensigns were designated “Deck Officers Limited—Only,” which was typically for officers who were physically unfit or lacked requisite education. Of course, none of these men met that definition. They were standout athletes, and many had advanced degrees. There was only one reason to give that label, and it was painfully obvious to them—and to everyone else—what that was.30

  It would take several months before these ensigns were allowed to be officer of the day, which meant they were temporarily in charge of the camp—a standard task for commissioned men. Instead, the black officers were first assigned junior officer status and trailed behind a white officer. It was demeaning to the black ensigns and deflating to black enlisted men, who saw that the first officers who looked like them still had to play the lackey.

  Nelson remained bitter for years over that treatment, which “left Negro officers in inferior positions which produced in the minds of Negro enlisted personnel a lack of confidence to follow such leadership.” He and his peers knew their abilities were being wasted “or dissipated under a continued plan where color and race determined assignments, rank and responsibility.”31

  Many white sailors at Great Lakes—either because of their own prejudice or because they felt Armstrong did not have the new officers’ backs—were publicly dismissive and openly insubordinate toward the new black officers.

  White sailors would cross the street to avoid having to salute black officers. Baugh at first ignored the insult even as it ate him up inside. After a while, he made a little game out of it. He’d cross the street, too, just to catch them.32

  Off base, the treatment was often even more hostile.

  Shortly after receiving his commission, Graham Martin and his wife, Alma, dined at a fancy Chicago restaurant, excited to share a romantic dinner. When Martin walked through the door in his dress blue officer’s uniform, patrons and staff stopped what they were doing and stared.

  No one said anything, though, and the couple took their seats. They both ordered the stuffed bell peppers and enjoyed their evening—until they got home. For the next twelve hours, the two took turns in the bathroom. Someone in the restaurant’s kitchen had put a laxative in their meal. Martin suspected croton oil. Years later, he joked that he would have sued but he flushed the evidence.33

  Nelson told a tale of a meal he ate at the Palmer House, a posh Chicago hotel, shortly after he was commissioned. After his plate had been cleared, he pulled out a cigar and asked a wealthy-looking white woman at the next table whether she minded if he smoked.

  “I don’t give a damn if you burn,” she said.34

  It was a very different story in the black communities of Chicago and Milwaukee. In those sections of town, these officers were heroes, celebrities who could do no wrong and would pay for no drinks.

  When Lena Horne, the famed singer and actress, performed for the troops in the spring of 1944, Ensign Sam Barnes had the privilege of planning the logistics of her visit and catering to her needs.35

  A young enlisted sailor, a white man named Ted Sherman, who was only a few months out of boot camp, remembered escorting Horne and a quartet of musicians to the auditorium at Great Lakes so they could rehearse. He asked if she had any requests.

  Just one, she said. The first three rows, normally reserved for top officials, were to be assigned to black sailors.

  Sherman didn’t know what to do. Black sailors had to sit in the balcony. He went to find his superior officer. Horne insisted, telling the commandant that “if discrimination enters the picture, then we don’t appear.” The Navy gave in. Black men would sit up front.36

  Horne sang a host of hits that night, including “Stormy Weather,” “The Lady Is a Tramp,” “Honeysuckle Rose,” and “Someone to Watch over Me,” all to loud applause. But the loudest applause all evening, the loudest applause Horne said she had ever heard, came when she walked to the stage on the arm of Ensign Reginald Ernest Goodwin, a black officer in the United States Navy.37

  George Cooper, John Reagan, and Frank Sublett were sent back to Hampton, where they resumed their friendship with Commander Edwin Hall Downes. Downes refused to tolerate any act of racism or condone any condescension; anyone who violated those tenets could expect a transfer order. The commander could enforce his rules, even with higher-ranking officers, because Washington felt so indebted to Downes for running a topnotch segregated training school. Navy bureaucrats in Washington assumed—as they had with Armstrong—that this was all due to Downes’s talents instead of to the simple truth that black men were every bit as a capable as white men.

  It also helped that Downes was a savvy politician who knew which wheels needed greasing and how best to grease them. He had Joe Gilliard, who worked in Hampton Institute’s art department, make beautiful pieces of copper and brass so the commander always had a small gift for whichever high-ranking official he visited. The pieces weren’t much more than trinkets such as candlesticks, lamps, or small coal scuttles, but they were useful for winning friends in high places.

  So when Downes needed to take a stand, he could be reasonably certain he would not be overruled. And that stand, more often than not, was in the service of protecting the black officers and enlisted men under his watch.

  Shortly after arriving back at Hampton, Cooper was ordered to pick up a captain at the airport.

  The captain gazed warily at Cooper, a black man wearing an officer’s uniform, and asked where he’d be sleeping that night.

  Bachelor officer quarters, Cooper said.

  “Where do you stay?” the captain wanted to know.

  “I live in an apartment, sir.”

  “Good. But before I go to bed, I want to see the skipper.”

  “Sir, you can’t see the skipper tonight,” Cooper said. “You can see the skipper at quarters tomorrow, because I’m not going to call him tonight.”

  “Well, I’ve got a problem,” the captain said.

  “Can I help you with the problem?”

  “You are the problem.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about it then,” Cooper said. “I’m not going to call the skipper tonight, and you’ll have to, sir, see him at quarters the next morning.”

  By the time Cooper arrived at Downes’s office the next morning, the captain had come and gone.

  Downes called all his staff—white and black—together and addressed the men.

  “We had a new officer come in last night,” Downes said. “George met him, and he came in this morning early to see me. He told me that if he had known there was a colored officer on this base, he would have asked not to be sent here, because he never wanted to see another nigger as long as he lived.”

  Downes took a breath.

  “I’ve been in touch with [the Bureau of Naval Personnel], and he won’t stay here,” he continued. “We’re going to ship him out. He’s going to Alaska.”

  Three weeks later, Downes came to see Cooper.

  “You remember that captain who came in here and said he never wanted to see another nigger?” Downes asked

  Yes, Cooper remembered.

  “We sent him up to Alaska and he never saw one, because he died yesterday.”38

  Downes, though, could only do so much to protect his men. Many members of ship’s company at Hampton refused to salute Reagan, Sublett, and Cooper, or they’d cross the street to avoid them.

  Sublett had a live-and-let-live attitude about the whole affair.

  “If he saluted, okay. If he didn’t, okay,” Sublett explained. “I was wearing a United States uniform. That was due the respect. . . . If they chose to respect that, fine. And if they didn’t
, they didn’t.”39

  It wasn’t easy for everyone to be so magnanimous, though they knew it was part of their duty—to the Navy and to each other. Officer training was only their first test. The black officers were under the microscope now, and they understood that whatever progress the Navy made in 1944 was tenuous. All could be stalled or reversed if anyone gave the Navy even the slightest reason to suspect that black officers were less than perfect. This group carried a responsibility to ensure they were the first, not the last.

  They were expected to be little wooden soldiers, Hair said.40

  There were close calls, times when the disrespect and dehumanization pushed them to the brink, but no one ever saw these thirteen men crack.

  Once, when Cooper and his wife, Peg, were walking with their baby girl in Newport News, just outside of Hampton, a white sailor got right up in Cooper’s face and yelled, “You black son of a bitch, I read about you guys, but I never thought I’d meet one.”

  Cooper, the hell-raiser Armstrong worried about, was ready to fight and cocked his fist.

  Peg, the woman who had told her husband he’d absolutely become an officer, grabbed his arm. It’s not worth it, she whispered.

  “Peg, you’re right,” he said. “Thank you.”41

  It may have seemed to the first black officers, so often the subject of scorn and epithets, that racial progress in the latter half of 1944 was proceeding at a snail’s pace—if at all. But what they couldn’t see and could have no way of knowing was that a revolution was taking place in Washington, emanating from the very office that had done so much to inhibit black ambition.

  James Forrestal, the new Navy secretary, felt the branch had for too long been too slow to take advantage of all the talent and effort African Americans could offer. A wealthy Wall Street executive and longtime member of the National Urban League, Forrestal had a far more progressive take on racial issues than Knox. “Bigotry damages the spirit of the bigot more than it injures the object,” he once said at a National Urban League dinner.42