Under the Red Sea Sun

by Edward Ellsberg

  I trudged through the dust with Byrne back to our office building. Except for the usual Sudanese sentries about, I saw nobody. The Naval Base was as silent, as dead, as deserted, and as useless as that day I first arrived in Massawa and was dumped out on the front steps of that same office building.

  Inside the door on the first floor was Pat Murphy, construction superintendent for the contractor, and a group of his American foremen, of whom he had plenty, discussing the strike.

  “Well, Commander,” said Murphy, who I believe had previously protested the pay situation to his employers in Asmara as strongly as I, “now we’ve got a strike. Got any ideas on the subject?”

  Before I could answer, I started to get profane advice from some of his foremen, demanding action which apparently they had been pressing on Murphy. The gist of it seemed to be that I should get the British to give us soldiers to break the strike. They had two regiments in Massawa—one of Sudanese, one of Bengalis and Sikhs, both fine fighting regiments. With those we could easily force the Italians at least, many of whom were prisoners of war and the rest enemy aliens subject to concentration camps, none of whom had any ordinary civil rights, to go back to work at the point of a bayonet. That should terrify the Eritreans sufficiently so they would return also.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m doing nothing, Pat, except report this to Colonel Claterbos in Asmara for his action on your company. That’s the only spot bayonets may do some good. I’m not asking the British here for troops; I’ll get out of Massawa myself first. I want work out of these men in Massawa, not sabotage, and sabotage is all we’ll get with bayonets in this case.”

  I continued up the stairs. So far as I could judge from his expression, Pat Murphy was of the same mind.

  In my office, I found Mrs. Maton. Byrne looked very glum as he stared out the rear windows at his deserted shops.

  “See if you can get Colonel Claterbos in Asmara, Mrs. Maton,” I said to her, then turned to Byrne. “Any of your workmen been to see you about this before this walkout?” I asked.

  “No, Commander,” he said, “nothing but the usual breaking off of some Eytie or some Eritrean whenever I passed through a shop, to beg me for some pay. It wasn’t any worse yesterday than any day. When quitting time came last night there wasn’t anything different, no demonstrations at all. They all jammed into the trucks for the ride back to the native village, Edaga Berai, and Massawa. Only this morning when the trucks with the night crews of drivers went to meet them at Edaga Berai causeway, there just wasn’t anybody to meet, and nobody’s shown up round here since. You just can’t help sympathizing with these skinny natives—when they say they’re hungry, it means they’re starving. I don’t blame ’em for staying home to scratch round for something to eat,” Byrne concluded, and returned to gazing morosely at his idle shops.

  I looked out southward towards the Royal Naval Base; there were no shops there but Captain Lucas always had a considerable force of natives working on ground maintenance. Apparently everything was normal with him; there were all the usual signs of activity around the British buildings, with the usual natives working on the grounds at their usual pace. Only the Americans were the object of the strike.

  “Colonel Claterbos, Commander Ellsberg,” said Mrs. Maton. She had succeeded in getting him in jig time, for once.

  “Hello, Colonel, this is Ellsberg,” I said. “We’ve—”

  “You’ve got a strike down there, I hear,” he broke in on me. So the news must have traveled fast to Asmara.

  “Yes, just what I expected,” I replied. “Complete tie-up, every shop’s dead. Queer strike, though—no delegates, no ultimatums, no demands, no nothing—just no workmen. The U.S. will get a hell of a black eye out of this all over the Middle East. The news will be in Yemen just as fast as the first Arab dhow can sail across the Red Sea, and then God knows what the Axis propagandists will do with it on the radio from Rome and Berlin! Starving Mohammedans strike because those friends of democracy, the Americans, gyp them out of their pay! Italian prisoners of war risk death to quit working for pluto-democracy rather than be swindled! You know how Goebbels will dress it up! It’s a natural for him and this is one time he won’t have to lie! What can you do about it, Colonel?”

  “Only get after the contractor,” replied Claterbos grimly. “And I will! He’s got to settle this.”

  “There’s only one way to settle it,” I advised. “Make him quit talking about payrolls and start paying! It doesn’t have to be everything; a couple of weeks’ pay now and an honest promise to pay the rest in a few days or so and then no more delays in paying off, will get them back. Only do something quick! I’ve got a salvage job on the fire, and ships to repair on the dry dock and no shops to do anything with! Put the screws on ’em; let ’em know there’s a war on!”

  “I will,” said Claterbos. “I’ve sent for the contractor already. That all?”

  “That’s all!”

  I hung up the telephone with relief, surprised to have finished my first Asmara telephone call without a broken connection. I wondered how Colonel Claterbos would make out; back in the United States the contractor would long since have been in bankruptcy for failure to pay off on any pretext at all, the way he was doing here.

  I sat back and thought. There was a great deal of work for everybody in Eritrea in all the shops—for the British, for the local Massawa authorities, for the contractor, for the ship in dry dock. Everything would have to wait now till the strike was settled, though it would be awkward explaining, especially to the British forces. But that ship in dry dock couldn’t be delayed—she was due to come off that night. I wondered what we had for her.

  “Come on,” I said to Byrne, “let’s get over to the machine shop. I’ve got to find out what you’ve got in way of work for that ship on the dock. We can’t hold her up.”

  Austin Byrne, thin, gray, and eagle-eyed, reminding me every time I saw him of what I thought one of the old Roman senators must have looked like, led the way to a battery of lathes. Some partly turned valve disks were held in the chucks.

  “I’ve got only some valve parts left now,” he said, “some disks and some seats for two sea chests. They were to have been trued up this morning, so they could go back by noon.”

  “What can you do about it, Byrne?” I asked. “I can’t flood the dock down without those valves and she’s got to go off. Another ship’s here already from Alex to go on tomorrow.”

  “Finish ’em myself, I guess,” said Byrne. “Have you got any machinists to reinstall ’em?”

  “There’s only Hudson, that English engineer on the dry dock. He’s a good machinist; he could do it, with his Persians to help him. That crowd’s on a different payroll; they haven’t quit.”

  “Good enough, Commander. I’ll have these valve parts down on the pier by one o’clock; I’ll stay right with it till the job’s done.” Byrne quit talking, started up the nearest lathe, and went right to work facing off the worn valve disk held in the lathe. I went back alone to the office.

  “Mrs. Maton,” I said, “there’re two Maltese manning the Lord Grey haven’t had any breakfast yet. Can you get over to the employees’ mess hall, get some coffee and something for ’em to eat, and then get back here with it? I’m going out again immediately, but I can’t let ’em go out hungry. They’ve been on all night and now they’re going to have to stay on a long while yet. The Lord Grey’s the only boat we’ve got. I can’t tie her up without a crew.”

  “Yes, Commander,” answered Mrs. Maton. “I’ll be right back with something, if I have to cook it myself.”

  Just then the telephone rang. Mrs. Maton lifted the receiver, then said, “Captain Lucas, Commander Ellsberg.”

  I took the instrument, while Mrs. Maton departed.

  “This is Lucas, Ellsberg. Commander Davy’s here and he has just informed me all your Eytie workmen and the natives have left you flat. Sorry to hear it, old chap. Is there anything I may do to help?”

  �
�No, Captain. It’s just as you’ve heard it; we’re all tied up in the Naval Base, but I’m all right out on the water. We’ll keep the dry dock going and hold up no ships for Alex. Thanks for your offer, but whatever’s to be done to settle this has to be done in Asmara. Colonel Claterbos is handling it there. Oh, come to think of it, there is something you can do. Will you fix it with Davy while he’s there to furnish a British naval crew for the Lord Grey right away? I’m in a bad way for seamen for her while this lasts.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Ellsberg. And if there’s anything else, let me know.”

  I hung up the receiver and mopped my brow. The Lord Grey, our only harbor transportation, would not much longer be one of my worries.

  Mrs. Maton, loaded down with a bag of sandwiches and a can full of hot coffee, was soon back. I went out to the dry dock in the Lord Grey. While I steered, the crew fell ravenously on their belated breakfast. I couldn’t leave the sunken dock for long, and what few excursions I might make from it would mostly be to the other dry dock to see that our program there did not slack down, strike or no strike ashore. I could do nothing ashore—there was one way only of settling the strike—payment in part (or in full, if possible) immediately and no more delays in regular pay days in the future.

  Only when the contractor was actually ready to pay off was it necessary to get in any of the Naval Base employees, natives or Italians, to parley with them; neither the Naval Base nor any of its officers could take part in any discussions with the workmen on any other basis.

  I imagined that with a disgraceful strike with international implications tying up an American Naval Base on his hands, our civilian contractor might not now be so unhysterical and calm as previously in ironing out the pay accounts; he would find some way of hastening matters.

  I disembarked alongside the sunken dock, with a final order to the coxswain to see Davy immediately on his return and get the promised relief crew for the Maltese. The boat shoved clear for the return trip.

  Bill Reed and Lloyd Williams, both very curious over my sudden departure, were at the rail to meet me as I clambered back aboard. I told them the sad news—for some time, we should have no laborers at all to assist us; the thirteen men in the salvage party, plus the three of us, would have to carry on by ourselves.

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, anyway call back that boat!” exclaimed Reed. “Don’t you know we’ve run out of ice and the drinking water’s all gone, too? We can get along without those strikers but not without ice water! Not on this job!”

  I came to with a jolt. This was really serious.

  “Boat ahoy!” I sang out at the top of my lungs to the Lord Grey, already a hundred yards off. “Come back here!”

  The startled coxswain put his helm over sharply, started to circle back. When the boat was close enough, I shouted to him,

  “Don’t come alongside! When you get ashore, strike or no strike, get half a ton of ice and at least a couple of hundred bottles of water down on the wharf and send them out, four bells and a jingle! We’ve got nothing to drink here! Never mind how you do it! Get us that ice and water right away!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” he acknowledged. Without slacking its speed, the boat finished its circle and kept on for the shore, while I swabbed my brow and looked apologetically at Reed. “I’m damned if I see how I ever forgot about the water, Bill, even with a strike shoved in my lap. Can’t we drink some of that water for the compressor radiators till some more drinking water comes out?”

  “Naw,” said Reed, “we’ve tried that already. The Eytie tank it’s in is snafu. That water stinks! I guess we keep on going dry. And I’m dying of thirst already! God, how I wish I had a can of nice cold beer!” He looked at me reproachfully with his one good eye. “And I was telling Lloyd here when you came back, you’d certainly bring us a boatload of ice and water; you knew it was all gone. What kind of a salvage officer are you, anyway? I thought that was what you were going for when you shoved off in such a sweat! A strike! Hell, what’s that against some water on this job?”

  I had nothing to say in rebuttal. Reed was right; I was thirsty already myself and I had been inside a building most of the time with several drinks while I was gone. How must my men feel who had been out in the sun half the morning with no water at all? I’d be lucky if they didn’t want to heave me overboard.

  I looked around. Only three of the compressors were running. One of the Eytie compressors, the Fiat on the port side, had stopped. In front of it, Tony and Buck Schott were taking turns cranking, trying to get it started again.

  Buck, who was the most powerful man we had, was a giant, not in height exactly, but at least in circumference. Naked to the waist, his protruding stomach stood out magnificently; he resembled that way the carved images of Buddha, or perhaps more precisely those massive Oriental wrestlers who are tremendous in their girth. He had powerful arms also; his biceps were in proportion to his waistline. Alternately, first with his right, then with his left, he spun the crank of that Fiat each time a new chemical fuse was screwed into its head by Tony; his whole body, covered with sweat, positively glistened in the sun as he labored.

  But he had no luck. The recalcitrant Fiat refused to start. With a bang that nearly bounced it overboard, Buck angrily flung the crank down on the deck, and flopped heavily back against the rail, gasping for breath. He was through.

  Tony, whom I was surprised to see on the dock at all since he must have known his countrymen were going on strike and he might have gone with them the night before or at least have left with me in the boat that morning, picked up the crank. Tony, no weakling, had neither Buck’s avoirdupois nor his strength, but he did have more finesse. Alternately he inserted burning fuses and then cranked madly, but there was no start in that Fiat. Finally Tony, in a frenzy himself, smacked the crank to the deck, and with both fists shaking menacingly, danced up and down, cursing the compressor. Then he retrieved the crank and once more went at it. All to no avail. At last, too exhausted even to curse, he let go the crank and sagged back alongside Buck.

  “I shouldn’t wonder that machine’s so worn the compression’s bad,” I muttered to Williams. “Don’t let anybody else bother with it till night, Lloyd. Maybe when it’s cooled a bit, we can get it going again. And when his tongue has quit hanging out, you try to make Tony understand he can go ashore in the next boat. I don’t want to take advantage of him just because we’ve still got him aboard. He can quit with all the other strikers. Make sure he knows I won’t hold it against him.”

  Williams nodded, and I passed along to make a tour round the dry dock to read all the pressure gauges. They were the first encouraging news I’d had that morning; the pressures were rising steadily all over the dock; already we had reached two pounds on every tank. That meant the water inside the dock was continuing to go out; now it must be down four feet below the level of the sea outside. In spite of leaks, in spite of the loss of one compressor, we were gaining.

  By the time my inspection was finished and I had returned to the port side, I found all hands, including Tony, clustered beneath the awning over the empty icebox, trying to escape the sun. No work was going on; the thirsty men were all past doing anything further till some water came aboard.

  Lloyd Williams indicated Tony.

  “We had a long conversation, mostly with our hands,” said Lloyd. “Tony knew all about the strike, but he’s not striking; anyway not while this dock is on the bottom. He wants to stay and watch it come up—you haven’t got a stronger fan in the world on this job, Commander, than Tony. He says you let him stay and he takes care of the compressors, night and day, all by himself—he doesn’t want any help. That’s how Tony feels about leaving. I told him you’d let him know.”

  I twisted round and looked at Tony. He knew he was the subject of the discussion and was eagerly watching me.

  “Bono, Tony. You stay,” I nodded at him.

  Tony smiled gratefully as if I were doing him a great favor in letting him stay to kill himself ov
er those sizzling compressors, and wan as he was, picked up the watering can by his side and sidled out from under the awning into the broiling sun to water the compressor radiators. He might be ready to collapse from thirst himself, but his pets were not going to go without a needed drink.

  In an hour the Lord Grey was back in charge of three British sailors, who landed it most expertly alongside, not a surprising feat since it was a Royal Navy boat. But it was the cargo, not the crew, which interested us—there were six huge cakes of ice and stacks of bottled water rising to the gunwales. Never was a boat unloaded any faster than that one nor water greeted more eagerly. Hastily the ice went into our box, but nobody waited to cool any of the water; warm as it was, off came the cap the instant each man got his hands on a bottle and down his parched throat went the water.

  After a free-for-all lunch of cold canned willie, topped off with more water, everybody went looking for leaks again, but except for the forward corners on both sides of the dock, nobody found anything serious. But those corners, where the deck plate, the side plate, and the end plate met were bad. We had already caulked all the lead we could get into the seams, but the results were far from perfect. I put Jay Smith on one side of the dock and Buck Schott on the other to keep hammering away at the joints with caulking chisels, trying to make them tighter.

  In the early afternoon, the Lord Grey came by again with the sea chest parts for the ship in the Persian dock. I boarded her and went over with them to that dock to tell Hudson he’d have to install them.

  Hudson, a short, stocky, broad-faced Englishman with a thick accent I had difficulty always in understanding, was much surprised at the request, but very willing to undertake the job. Everybody on the Persian dock knew of the strike; they had consequently not expected to see those essential valves for days yet and had given up any hopes of undocking on schedule, though the Eritrean painting crew had not slacked down. Hudson started talking to his head Persian. In a few minutes the newly machined valve parts were on their way down into the vessel’s engine room, and I had Hudson’s promise that by late afternoon everything would be installed and the ship ready to go off.