Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  Rosetti was looking down at the steam table. “I don’t believe it,” he moaned. “Put a target on my goddamn back and send the Japs around—shit on a shingle again!”

  Normally they would have laughed at the muscular ensign’s fate, but tonight, with nothing else to pick from, they shared it; and even though they hadn’t eaten since midday, each man took serious stock of how hungry he actually was before facing the infamous dish.

  “I wish it was fuckin’ horse,” Rosetti said.

  But they ate it. They ate it in near silence, like kids forced by their parents to go to church, and by the time they finished, they were all ready to find their billets and surrender to exhaustion.

  One steward’s mate led the quartet to the officers’ transit barracks, where they each found empty bunks and made up the cots. A couple of other bunks were already made up, but whether their owners were at the movie or somewhere else, who could say? Treasure Island served mainly as a layover stop for officers and enlisted men alike, on their way to new assignments.

  Many of the ships being built these days were constructed in the nearby Kaiser-Permanente Shipyards, where up to four ships could be assembled at once. The Liberty Hill Victory should be done by now. Its launch could well be in the next couple of days, and as Pete prepared for bed, he felt excitement seep through his tiredness as he realized how close he was to actually going to sea.

  What would it be like? Back in Iowa they had the Mississippi, but mighty as the Missisip was, it was no ocean; at sea, no land in sight, he, his shipmates, and their ship would face not just the Japanese but the elements. Would it change him? Would it kill him? Would he come back more of a man, or would he not come back at all?

  They were about to hit the rack when two young ensigns strolled in. The first was as blond as Driscoll, wiry, and with an easygoing smile. He introduced himself around as, “Larry Benson, Greenfield, Indiana,” displaying a firm handshake, and Pete took an instant liking to him.

  The other guy was a narrow-shouldered, mean-looking little guy with tiny dark eyes crowding a sharp beak-like nose. “Billy Cotton, from Tupelo, Mississippi,” he said. He shook hands with all of them, but his grip was limp and moist, and

  the ritual seemed a chore to him.

  “Where you headed?” Driscoll asked the Southerner.

  Cotton said, “We got two more nights’ shore leave, then come Monday, we’re on a ship to Pearl. We’re both scheduled to be replacements. Benson’s got a cruiser, I caught a sardine can. What about y’all?”

  “We’ve got an ammo ship,” Pete said.

  “Attached to the Liberty Hill Victory,” Rosetti said.

  The temperature in the barracks seemed to drop faster than the Cards’ Emil Verban and Marty Marion could turn a double play.

  “You guys are from that ship?” Cotton said, his upper lip curled back, his tone oozing distaste.

  The Fantail Four exchanged confused glances.

  “What about it?” Connor asked.

  Cotton made a face like something smelled. “Benson, let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “I ain’t spendin’ the night in these foul barracks.”

  “What?” Benson asked.

  “Didn’t you catch that?” Cotton asked. “They’re from the Liberty Hill Victory.”

  Benson’s face sagged and went pale.

  “What the hell are you guys talking about?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah,” Rosetti said, chest out, “what the hell’s wrong with you birds?”

  “What’s wrong with us?” Cotton said, his voice rising. “You got your fuckin’ nerve.”

  Not knowing what to say, Pete stood there dumbfounded.

  Rosetti might’ve mixed it up with the beady-eyed little S.O.B., but Cotton was already on the move, rushing across the barracks to a bunk where he stuffed a couple of loose items in his sea bag, then hefted it over his shoulder.

  “Benson, come on,” the jerk said. “Last chance. I ain’t stayin’ here tonight.”

  The easygoing blond sailor shrugged at the guys, but he followed Cotton and soon the pair was out the door without another word.

  Rosetti started after them, but Driscoll caught his arm. “Rosie! Whatever crawled up their ass and died, you’re not gonna go in after it. That’s an undignified expedition for a man of your fine qualities.”

  Pete was at Rosetti’s side. “Dick’s right. Let it go. Maybe it’s some kind of initiation or something.”

  Driscoll was gazing across at where the two sailors had exited, his eyes narrow. “Why the hell would they badmouth a spanking new ship like Liberty Hill?”

  “Mr. Benny,” Connor said, in gravel-voiced Rochester mode, “please tell me you didn’t buy your ship down at the army surplus like you did the Maxwell!”

  The Maxwell referred to was not Pete, rather the ancient wheezing automobile in which Rochester chauffeured the cheapskate Jack Benny on the radio show.

  And this was enough to get a laugh out of everybody, and they shrugged off this bizarre stupidity and headed for the sack.

  Still, in the darkness, before drifting to sleep, each man pondered the same puzzler: what could possibly be wrong with a brand-new ship and a brand-new crew?

  Chapter 4

  JUNE 21, 1944

  Not long after reveille, the Fantail Four learned why Ensigns Cotton and Benson had given them such a bizarre welcome.

  Pete Maxwell and his buddies still hadn’t met their skipper, but a trip to the headquarters building, after breakfast, got them a step closer: seemed their crew was doing calisthenics at the far end of the island, behind the last barracks.

  Rosetti procured a Jeep from the motor pool, and they drove the same route as the bus last night, only under blue skies in California sun. Soon they’d exhausted that route, however, going farther and farther, past the movie theater, the bowling alley, the fire station, the power plant. . . .

  Pete was starting to wonder if the calisthenics their crew were undertaking might not be a swim in the bay.

  Finally, behind two dingy ancient barracks that had been painted upon completion but never again, Pete saw sixty or so colored boys in dungarees and light blue work shirts, the regular outfit of a seaman. Under the perfect blue sky with its scattering of water-color white clouds, the black men were doing push-ups, some with more effort than others. Two Negroes, their feet toward the Jeep, were down on the ground as well, but in an obvious leadership position.

  And off to one side, bored out of their gourds, bewildered beyond their mental capacities, sat four white non-coms at a nearby picnic table, playing cards.

  “Shit,” Rosetti said, slowing, “we’re lost.”

  “Are we?” Driscoll said. His voice rang hollow.

  Rosetti leaned on the wheel. “I must’ve took a left turn to Africa.”

  Pete frowned. “You didn’t turn at all.”

  “Don’t you get it, gents?” Driscoll asked with a forced lightness. “Like they say in Connie’s business, dis must be da place.”

  But Connor had no Rochester wisecrack for this occasion. Though (with the exception of Pete) the comedy writer tended to swear less than the others, he nonetheless summed up their situation with profane simplicity: “Oh, fuck.”

  “This can’t be right,” Rosetti said. “Gotta be some SNAFU. . . .”

  All Pete could think of was the fine print on that posting asking for “good-sized” volunteers. Sports background a plus. He felt sick to his stomach. And it wasn’t the powdered eggs.

  One of the nom-coms put down his hand of cards and abandoned the picnic table to approach the four officers who’d rolled up in the Jeep. He had an eager yet sickly smile.

  “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he said, his voice flat and Midwestern, “we seem to have some sort of a foul-up.”

  Pete didn’t look at the guy; his eyes were on the field where Negroes were doing their push-ups; the whole situation had become obviously, horribly clear to him. He was the one who’d got his friends into this mess, and alr
eady he knew there was no way out.

  To the non-com, Pete said, “You’ve been assigned to the Liberty Hill Victory, sailor. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir, but . . . how did you know?”

  Jumping down from the Jeep, Pete didn’t respond. His attention was on the two colored sailors with their backs to him. He felt sure he recognized the one nearest to him; he hoped so, anyway—or did they really all look alike?

  As Pete neared the Negroes doing push-ups, the two nearest (and facing) him popped up, yelling together, “Ten-hut!”

  The pair supervising, their backs to Pete, jumped up and stood at attention without turning his way. Pete didn’t need them to—that all-look-alike stuff was baloney. He did indeed know the man closest to him, and he felt a sudden small twinge of relief.

  Falling in line next to the man, he said, “Seaman Washington, how are the men this morning?”

  Gradually the push-ups had stopped and the colored sailors were getting to their feet and straightening to attention.

  Sarge Washington was so stunned, he barely remembered to salute. “Men is fine . . . sir.”

  Pete nodded. He gazed out at the assembly of sailors, more black faces in one place than he’d ever seen, including the Silver Slipper.

  “Stand easy!” he told them.

  They did.

  Pete turned to Sarge. “I take it you’ve all been assigned to one ship.”

  “Yes, sir. The—”

  “Liberty Hill Victory,” Pete finished.

  Sarge’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right, sir. Looks like we finally gonna get in this war, as somethin’ more than busboys.”

  Pete gave him a look.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

  Pete’s smile was so faint only the Negro could make it out; under his breath he said, “I dig you, Sarge.”

  Sarge’s smile was similarly hard to see.

  Gazing out over the vast complement of Negroes, Pete remembered something his mother used to say: “Be careful what you wish for, son.” He’d wished for a ship, he’d wished for a crew, and it had all come true, hadn’t it?

  He’d wanted to get into this war, and it looked like he might be fighting the rest of it without ever needing to encounter a German or Jap to do so. In front of him were sixty, maybe seventy colored boys. This must have been how Custer felt, right before his last haircut.

  In the third row, steward’s mate Willie Wilson gave Pete a small discreet wave, which the new lieutenant (j.g.) acknowledged with a barely discernible nod.

  To Sarge, he said, “Our four white non-coms don’t seem very interested in joining the rest of the crew for the morning calisthenics.”

  Sarge shrugged and raised an eyebrow till it practically touched the white of his dogfood-bowl cap. “It never came up, sir.”

  “I see. How about your men, Sarge? They in shape?”

  “Shipshape, sir,” Sarge said, standing a little straighter himself. “Every man jack.”

  Pete nodded and unbuttoned his jacket. He lay it carefully on the ground as the rest of the Fantail Four came walking up, as if navigating a mine field; behind them, similarly cautious, ambled the card players.

  “Maaaaxie,” Driscoll said. He looked like a patient whose doctor had just delivered a grave diagnosis. “What in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are you up to?”

  “Getting to know the crew. We’re doing some exercises.”

  “That so?” Rosetti said, hands on his hips, something feisty in his tone. “Where the hell’s the skipper? He might have an opinion.”

  “Skipper’s not here. That puts you in charge, Dick. Okay with you if I lead the men in some jumping jacks?”

  Driscoll’s long face lengthened; his eyes disappeared into slits of skin. Then he took Pete by the sleeve and off to one side.

  “Just what sort of minstrel show do you have in mind, Maxie?” Driscoll asked, his tone light but demanding.

  “You figured it out before the rest of us, Dick. This is our crew. We’re stuck with them, and they’re stuck with us. Sooner we treat them like crew, sooner they’ll treat us like officers. Any objection, Lieutenant?”

  Driscoll squinted; the sun had something to do with it, but not everything.

  Then the exec said, “None. It’s a good idea. Well-reasoned, Maxie. Mind if I sit this out?”

  “It’s your plantation.”

  That caught Driscoll off guard, and he grinned and shook his head. “Fuck you, Lieutenant.”

  “Language, sir. Language.”

  Pete went over and stood next to Sarge, facing the rows of colored sailors; then Pete glanced behind him, shot a look at Rosetti, who, getting it, nodded and came jogging up and fell in beside the Negro standing next to Sarge. Now two whites and two coloreds were leading the exercises, side by side.

  Finally Connor, who had been taking all of this in, shaking his head and laughing to himself, ran past the four leaders over to the front row of sailors and tagged himself on at the end.

  Lighting up a Lucky Strike with his Zippo, Driscoll was sitting in the Jeep, cap back on his head, while the four white non-coms hovered nearby, wondering where they fit into this Alice-in-Wonderland scheme of things.

  “Jumping jacks!” Pete called.

  He started in, then Sarge and Rosetti, the other Negro, too, and so did Connor and the rest of the group.

  “Count off,” Pete yelled, and a chorus of counting sailors did jumping jacks in a morning sun whose rays could not really compete with the cool bay breeze.

  One non-com, a skinny, pockmarked character, said, “I ain’t jumpin’ around with a bunch of fuckin’ monkeys.”

  The other non-coms winced, because this had been a declaration of sorts, loud enough to be heard by just about everybody.

  Several black sailors ceased their exercising, and their expressions turned stony as they started forward.

  Pete yelled, “Halt,” and they all froze, including those who had broken rank.

  Now Driscoll came down out of the Jeep, sending his Lucky sailing in a sparking trajectory, and planted himself in front of the skinny non-com, leaning in till his nose was six inches from the man’s. “And what’s your name, sailor?”

  “Griffin,” the non-com said in a thick, Southern drawl. He was a sandy-blond blue-eyed kid, lean as a snake but with the pointed face of a rodent.

  “What did you say?”

  Griffin remained defiant. “I said I ain’t jumpin’ ’round with no monkeys.”

  His voice rising only slightly, Driscoll said, “I don’t remember ordering you to. Did I do that, sailor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But I do admire your enthusiasm. Your spirit. So I tell you what, sailor. Get your ass over there and join in.”

  “Why should I? I don’t see you doin’ it.”

  Driscoll’s smile was pleasant but his eyes weren’t. “That’s because I’m the ranking officer. It’s that privilege of rank you’ve been hearing so much about. You, however, are an insignificant fly speck spoiling my view of these colorful sailors on this beautiful sunshiny day.”

  Griffin was getting scared now, shaking as he stood there with this strange exec lashing him with words.

  “When you grow up to be an officer,” Driscoll was saying, “you’ll have such privileges. As of now, it’s my privilege to tell you to get your goddamn ass in ranks and join in, or the only sunshine you’ll be seeing on this lovely day is through the fucking bars of your cell window. In the brig.”

  For a moment, Pete thought that Griffin, whose lower lip had extended in trembling defiance, was about to take a poke at Driscoll. That, Pete knew, would have been a mistake. Not only was Driscoll taller and more muscular, he’d been on the boxing team at Harvard and, Pete knew from their training together, the new lieutenant had a lethal right hand.

  One of the other non-coms clapped Griffin on the shoulder. “C’mon, Griff. Bunch of niggers ain’t worth goin’ to the brig for.”

  Driscoll beamed. “Good
. Another volunteer. All four of you, in fact—fall in over there, and impress me.”

  And the four non-coms joined the formation, each one falling in behind Connor, putting one white man on the end of the first four black rows. Their efforts were, at best, lackadaisical, but Driscoll pushed it no further as they were in line and part of the crew, however peripherally.

  After the jumping jacks, Pete outlined a course using the buildings, and told Sarge to lead the men around them, double-time. Rosetti went with them.

  Good, Pete thought. Nice to have a cop along to maintain law and order.

  When the runners were a hundred yards away, Driscoll and Connor turned on Pete. They were not angry, exactly.

  Exactly.

  Driscoll was grinning like a skull, his hands on his hips. “What in the name of Eleanor Roosevelt did you get us into, Maxie boy?”

  “Now we know why the posting wanted big guys,” Pete said, “with athletic backgrounds.”

  As Rochester, Connor began, “Mr. Benny . . .”

  Driscoll cut him off. “Rochester better stay in the wardroom from now on, eh, Connie?”

  Connor laughed humorlessly. “Doesn’t quite seem so damn funny, at that, under the circumstances. . . . They’re gonna love our Ink Spots impression.”

  “A colored crew,” Driscoll said, shaking his head. “Tell me you didn’t know, Maxie. Just convince me you weren’t so desperate to get on a warship that—”

  “Give me a break, Dick!” Pete threw up his hands. “You think I had a clue about this? You think I wanted to spend the rest of the war babysitting a bunch of blacks?”

  “They prefer ‘colored’,” Driscoll said, “and ‘Negro.’ That may help you avoid getting knifed in your sleep.”

  “Give it a rest, Dick,” Connor said. “There’s been talk of integration in this man’s Navy for years.”

  “I just didn’t think it would kick in today,” Driscoll said dryly. “Much less on the ship we were all so eager to get posted on. . . . Christ, fellas, the Japs are bad enough. You saw how our non-coms took it. Pete’s gone and dropped us in the middle of a goddamn race war!”

  “You’re overstating,” Connor said, “and you’re over-reacting.”