Marvin, however, was in the latrine—reading a Captain Marvel funny book.
In fact, Billy Batson had just said “Shazam” when an explosion blew the little drummer right off the can, sending him flying one way and the comic book flapping another. He had just enough time to cover his face before slamming into the wall like a bug into a windshield.
He hadn’t had time to drop to the latrine floor before a second blast made the first one seem like a warm-up, pin-balling Marvin across to the other wall, where he hit at least as hard as before, on his back this time, rattling his teeth and shaking every damn bone in his body.
Guys out there were screaming, and all the lights that weren’t already off had gone black, but through the doorway he could see the flash of shards of glass flying like deadly hail, as the many windows of the barracks blew out.
Somehow Marvin got his dungarees up and tottered to the door and looked out to see that that second boom had all but disintegrated the barracks, the whole damn roof caved in, the walls just shaky remnants. Guys were cut and bleeding and staggering around in their skivvies like zombies, except for a few that had managed to get under mattresses after the first blast, and protect themselves from the glass and debris.
Jesus Christ, he thought, hands on either side of the door frame, not sure if it was holding him up or vice versa. The motherfuckin’ Japs have hit! Pounding Port Chicago with guns off warships and bombs from the sky, Pearl Harbor all over again. . . .
Then a white officer stuck his head in and yelled, “It’s the ships! It’s the ships!”
Marvin took quick stock of the situation: the barracks injuries seemed limited to cuts, some pretty bad, but the guys who’d covered themselves with mattresses were out from under and on top of helping the rest; no medics were around, but sheets provided makeshift bandages and even tourniquets.
Getting his belt buckled, glad to be in shoes and not stocking feet, Marvin ran outside into a nighttime turned morning by flames and splotched by dark smoke clouds, and saw a Jeep just sitting there, keys in the ignition.
The barracks, what was left of them, were a mile and a half from the docks. . . .
He jumped in, thinking he had to get down there and see if he could help; it was maybe twenty after ten at night, but the sky ahead was as red as dawn. Sailors, many half-naked, were running around like the end of the world, some bleeding, some burned, some both.
Marvin kept his eyes on the gravel roadway and made sure not to hit any poor fool and he had gone maybe three-quarters of a mile when a Shore Patrolman emerged out of the smoke like an apparition and was standing there, playing crazy-ass traffic cop. Guy even had a goddamn whistle that he blew.
Marvin stuck his head out and said, “I want to help! I want to get through and help!”
“You have to turn around!” the Shore Patrolman yelled.
“Man, I got to get down to the docks!”
The SP came over and leaned in like a car hop and, talking as quiet as he could over the crackle of flames and the screams and the sirens, said: “Go back, son. There ain’t no more docks.”
“No docks?”
“No ships. No railroad. You keep going straight ahead, son, and you’ll finally be a sailor.”
“What?”
“You’ll drive right into the water.”
Marvin could do nothing but turn around and head back into the chaos he’d left. In so doing, he had to pause as two colored sailors were drunk-walking another badly burned black sailor across the road and away from the flames.
But when Marvin took a second look, the black sailor in the middle turned out to be a white officer he recognized as being a real prick down on the loading docks.
Only now he was black, too.
he disaster at Port Chicago was neither an attack by the Japanese, nor was it sabotage, rather a tragic accident, the worst homefront catastrophe of the war so far.
The flash Pete Maxwell had seen over his shoulder had been a small explosion on the pier, the first burst in a horrific display of unintentional pyrotechnics. The second and biggest blast had been the merchant freighter E. A. Bryan vaporizing along with the 4,606 tons of explosives and incendiary bombs in her holds. In the bay, beyond the Bryan, waiting to take on its “hot” cargo, the SS Quinault Victory blew up as well, random pieces of her hull flying so high they were spotted by passing planes, the aft half of her keel landing upside down five-hundred feet from where the ship had been anchored.
Three hundred and twenty sailors and workers on the ships and pier were killed instantly, another 390 were injured. Most of the deceased—202—were untrained Negro sailors loading the Bryan. Sixteen railcars of munitions went up in flames, and every single building on the base and in the nearby town was demolished or at least seriously damaged, the seismic shock wave from the detonations felt as far away as Boulder City, Nevada. Of the 7,200-ton E. A. Bryan, not a piece remained that you couldn’t carry off in a suitcase.
Steward’s Mate Willie Wilson, the only injured sailor aboard the Liberty Hill Victory, spent two days in sick bay before his vision returned to normal. Twelve others from Port Chicago who had looked directly at the blast had yet to regain their sight.
The Navy had immediately started reconstruction of the base, but until that massive job was completed, Port Chicago’s workload shifted to the ammunition depot at nearby Mare Island Naval Shipyard. The Liberty Hill Victory, first in line to be loaded, found herself in an unexpected limbo.
Two days earlier, when the Navy had ordered the remaining Port Chicago Negro sailors to resume ammo handling (now at Mare Island), the sailors refused—still untrained in how to handle their deadly cargo, exhausted from the grisly clean-up at Port Chicago, and denied the thirty-day leave granted to white survivors, they said the conditions remained as unsafe as before the explosion. They would do any duty but ammo loading.
Responding quickly and decisively, the Navy immediately arrested all 258 Negro sailors—Seaman Marvin Hannah among them—and threw them in the brig pending courts-martial, with fifty ringleaders earmarked for a mutiny charge and possible death penalty.
Despite Captain Egan’s efforts to keep the officers and crew isolated, every man aboard the Liberty Hill Victory soon found out what was happening ashore, and the dramatic topic of conversation spread through the ship like the fire at Port Chicago. Opinions on the so-called mutiny were, not unexpectedly, divided largely along racial lines.
During a routine check of the engine room, Pete had overheard Griffin saying to Whitford, “I told you them fuckin’ coons would chicken out when push come to shove. Feets don’t fail me now!”
Pete also noticed that the only colored man within earshot was the little queer, Orville Monroe. Shaft alley clipboard in hand, Monroe had pretended not to hear, but fear and anger raged in his eyes. With a sigh, Pete wondered how long it would take—minutes, hours?—before the petite sailor put in for his umpteenth transfer. . . .
But Griffin drove the needle deeper, saying, “They’re gutless wonders, I tell you—you wait, buddy, they’ll refuse to load up the Liberty Hill, too!”
Pete came up to him and said, “You’re on report, mister.”
“Lieutenant, a man has a right to his opinion!”
“In civilian life. In the Navy, I have the right to throw your ass in the brig if you say one more word.”
Orville had turned away to hide his smile.
Christ, Pete thought, am I pandering to these coloreds now? But he couldn’t abide the stupidity and hatred Griffin was spewing, knowing it would sow discontent on all sides.
By assigning the Liberty Hill just enough trained men for the engine room, the Navy had inadvertently made it all but impossible for the officers to discipline the only four white non-coms aboard. Still, putting that S.O.B. on report was something at least, and if Griffin earned a stay in the brig, both Egan and the Navy would be forced to do something about an untenable situation.
Wouldn’t they?
Hell, even Driscoll
had said, “Griffin is as bad or worse than the Negroes. You can’t give his white-trash kind that much responsibility—they’ll fold under the pressure, every time.”
You had to hand it to Dick—his contempt for those beneath his station crossed the color line with ease.
But, man, these last few days had been tense. If the colored crew ever found out how deeply bigoted Captain Egan was, the ship would make the Port Chicago Mutiny look like the Good Ship Lollipop. As for Driscoll expressing his casual racism, that was limited to the rest of the Fantail Four, whereas Connor and Rosetti seemed to share Pete’s view.
“Guys,” Pete had said early on, “if we’re going to live with them, we have to treat them fairly.”
“It’s the Christian thing,” the Jewish Connor had said, sarcastic but sincere.
Right now Pete was sprawled on his lower bunk, not wanting to begin another day. Across from him, Connor lay on his left side, looking over at Pete accusingly.
“You’re stalling,” Connor said.
They could only shave one at a time; this was a regular duel, to see who got five minutes extra in the rack.
“No,” Pete said, “it’s your turn. I went first yesterday.”
“We’re not taking turns. It’s the first guy up.”
“Well, that’s not me. Get your dead ass—”
“Maxie, Maxie, Maxie,” Driscoll said, sticking his head in, “that sweet little girl you left back on that Iowa farm will be dismayed by your new-found outhouse vocabulary.”
“Fuck you, Dick,” Pete said. He’d never said “fuck” before the Navy, but lately it felt fine.
“I appreciate your sentiment,” Driscoll told Pete, invading the little space, “but up and at ’em, you two. Skipper wants to see us all in the officers’ mess . . . in ten minutes.”
“That’s all I need,” Connor said, flipping the sheet off and climbing out of the rack. He remained, vaguely at least, on Egan’s Shit List—for the sin of looking Jewish with an Irish name—and had gone to some lengths not to piss the skipper off.
“What’s up his rear porthole now?” Pete asked, crawling out of his rack as well.
“This may shock you,” Driscoll said, “but the captain doesn’t share his every intimate thought with his XO.” The exec started to leave, then thought otherwise, and shut the door, his manner suddenly confidential.
Connor was a blur in the confined space, trying to shave and get dressed at the same time.
“Look, fellas,” Driscoll said, with the disarming grin he could work up if he felt like it, “I owe you something of an apology. You were obviously right about the desirability of teaching this crew to read. Who’s to say a ‘No Smoking’ sign, misunderstood, wasn’t the culprit at Port Chicago?”
“Glad you see it that way, Dick,” Pete said. He was getting dressed, despite not having access to the shaving mirror yet. “But it was really Ben’s idea.”
“I’m hearing nasty rumors,” Driscoll said. “Seems the white officers were betting on these colored stevedores like horses. Pretty unpleasant, inhumane stuff. You’ve been right all along, Maxie.”
Pete shrugged. “Reading may not be enough. Those guys who got blown to hell, and the ones in the brig waiting for courts-martial, they’re just like our guys—no training.”
“Why,” Connor said, wiping off his face with a towel, “should the crew be any different from us officers?”
“Another thing I heard,” Driscoll said, ignoring Connor’s all-too-true wisecrack, “is that the Port Chicago boys weren’t using work gloves—they were handling ammo barehanded.”
Pete frowned. “In that heat, their hands were bound to get sweaty, slippery—and a shell could get dropped, easy.”
“There’s no detonation pins,” Connor said. “Shouldn’t matter.”
Driscoll raised an eyebrow. “You think dropping a shell of TNT on its ass is a good idea? Anyway, some of what blew at the dock was hot—detonators in.”
“Christ,” Pete breathed. “Listen, excuse my ignorance, but . . . do we have work gloves for the boys?”
Driscoll smirked. “Maxie, I always make a point of excusing your ignorance . . . and the answer is no. But I’m going out and get them some from Port Authority if I have to pay for them myself.”
“Good man,” Connor said.
“Anyway,” Driscoll said lightly, “I’m going to rustle up some coffee. When you and Connie come down, Maxie, my boy, would you stop by the skipper’s cabin and tell him we’re ready?”
“You got it, Dick.”
Then Driscoll was gone. Soon the cabin mates were dressed and out the door, Connor going around to the officers’ mess while Pete climbed the stairs to the cabin deck and the captain’s quarters.
He knocked.
“Come,” came the familiar gruff voice.
The door opened into a cabin not any larger than Pete’s, though single-occupancy. The captain’s bed was on the right, above which was a single bookshelf filled with sturdy nautical volumes and a stack of the small oblong paperbound popular novels distributed to servicemen. Opposite as you came in was a small oak closet and a green leather banquette like those in the officers’ mess. To the left was a narrow bureau with two sea charts unfolded on top, past which a door led to the adjacent office.
The captain stood shaving at a mirror mounted on the wall directly next to the entry. Egan wore his uniform pants and boots and a white athletic undershirt, a tattoo of an anchor stark against the paleness of his left arm; his uniform shirt hung from a hook, back of the door.
The skipper’s brown hair was neatly combed over to hide the thinning top and his chin and cheeks were covered with lather as he drew a straight razor up his neck to his jaw.
“Any particular reason for this interruption, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Sir, Lieutenant Driscoll asked me to inform you that the officers are all present in the officers’ mess as requested.”
“Good.”
Pete stood at attention. Egan had not dismissed him.
Finally, Egan said, “At ease, Mr. Maxwell. So—what do you make of what happened at Port Chicago?”
“A tragedy, sir, for the personnel and the war effort.”
The captain, face still half-lathered, gave him a sideways, slightly suspicious look. “Did you rehearse that, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, remember it. It may serve you well. How do you think Lieutenant Driscoll held up in the situation that night?”
“Very well, sir. I thought he did the right thing. He did exactly what I would have done, anyway.”
“Oh?”
“I think he had to assume it was the Japs, sir. That we were under attack.”
Egan took another stroke with the razor. “And you say you would have done the same thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You would have both been wrong, then.”
“Sir?”
“We weren’t under attack.”
“My first order is to protect the ship, sir,” Pete said, trying not to sound defensive. “I’m sure Lieutenant Driscoll feels the same way . . . and since we didn’t know whether we were under attack or not, going to battle stations seems like the right decision.”
Egan turned to him now, the brown eyes under the shaggy brows burning. “Seems like the right decision?”
“Was the right decision,” Pete said.
Resting the razor on a ledge below the mirror, Egan toweled the remaining lather from his face. “Good, Mr. Maxwell. You grasp my nuance.”
Did he?
“Command is about making the hard decisions, even if you might be second-guessed. Even if you are college boys, you and Mr. Driscoll might turn out to make decent officers yet.”
“Thank you, sir. We try.”
He held up a forefinger. “No trying, son. Just doing. . . . Tell the others I’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Going back down the stairs to the boat deck, Pete again found
himself puzzling over Egan. Were they actually winning the skipper over? Was this the same guy who had ranted about “coloreds, commies, and college boys”? Pete understood that Egan was of another era, and his casual prejudices were perhaps best tolerated, particularly considering Egan was the guy in charge; but the bile their captain spewed really did grate.
Under that crusty exterior, was this career sailor the best friend Pete and the other officers had? Or the opposite? Not knowing which way that coin might flip made something twitch in Pete’s gut.
The other Fantailers sat at one table, each with a mug of coffee, but no food. Pete had hoped some breakfast would quell his restless stomach. But, like the others, he knew better than to order a plate when they were waiting for the captain.
Falling into a chair next to Connor, Pete got noncommital nods from the others.
“Captain Blood on his way?” Driscoll whispered.
“Couple of minutes behind me,” Pete said.
And almost exactly two minutes later, Egan appeared in the doorway.
Rising, Driscoll snapped, “Ten-hut!”
They were all in the process of getting up when Egan waved a benevolent hand. “At ease, gentlemen.”
A steward’s mate, a young Negro Pete didn’t recognize, materialized with coffee for the captain.
Egan asked, “What’s for breakfast, boy?”
“Bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and toast, sir.”
Egan glanced at them, then said, “Bring five plates and don’t dawdle.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Pete glanced at Connor—the skipper had Connor so buffaloed by now, the young ensign didn’t even mention his religion forbade him eating pork.
Soon the steward’s mate and a helper brought the servings, after which they filled each officer’s coffee cup. Before the steward disappeared, he asked, “Everything all right, sir?”
“Fine, fine. Good job.”
The steward turned to leave.
“Wait a minute,” Egan said. “What did the crew have this morning?”
“Why, oatmeal, sir.”
“Good, good. Dismissed.”
Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II Page 11
