Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  Big Brown managed to wedge himself in across from Pete, a great big grown-up sitting in a little child’s chair.

  Washington stood alongside the table, putting himself between both men. “Know what this is about?”

  Big Brown nodded. “Mr. Driscoll.”

  “How’d you feel about him?”

  Big Brown shrugged.

  “What kind of answer is that?” Washington mimicked the big oiler’s shrugging gesture. “Don’t play your tough boy games with me, Brown. What did you think of the man? Like him? Hate him? What?”

  “Never gave it much thought.”

  “How much thought did you give it?”

  “Mr. Driscoll was an officer,” the oiler said, “I wasn’t.” This, for Big Brown, seemed to sum it up.

  “Ever see him down in shaft alley?”

  “Can’t say I did.”

  “How about the engine room?”

  “Once or twice, maybe.”

  Pete said, “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  The big man said nothing.

  Washington leaned in and glowered at Big Brown. “Maybe he’s just shy, Lieutenant Maxwell. Or maybe he’s a big lummox with nothing to say.”

  Ignoring the goading, Big Brown sat placidly, his eyes meeting Washington’s but showing no apparent anger, no resentment.

  Washington surprised Pete by flinching first. “Back in Chicago, we feed boys like you the goldfish.”

  Pete had no idea what Washington was talking about.

  Big Brown said, “Rubber’s in short supply.”

  “Maybe so, but I bet I can find something around here to slap some sense in your black skull.”

  “You can try. Many have.” Now Big Brown gazed directly at Washington, brown eyes burning. “However, I believe that would be a mistake on your part.”

  “So,” Washington said, pleased. “At last. The real Brown comes out to play.”

  Stunned, Pete sat forward and said to their subject, “I’ll be damned—an educated man.”

  “I never said I wasn’t,” Big Brown said. His expression was peaceful, even angelic.

  “Then why,” Pete blurted, “do you persist in this monosyllabic bullshit!”

  Big Brown sat forward as best he could in the cramped seating conditions. “Mr. Maxwell, I do appreciate, even admire what you’re doing, helping these poor fellows learn to read. But I’m not one of their ignorant breed. I have a degree from the University of Cincinnati—football scholarship, but also an A-minus average.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Pete said. He glanced over at Washington, standing there quietly amused. “I heard you were a bouncer at the Bucket of Blood in Cleveland.”

  “I was,” Big Brown said.

  “But . . . with your brains, you could do anything.”

  “I will, but being a bouncer at the Bucket of Blood was lucrative, and filled in nicely where my scholarship came up short.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Pete said. “But why stay so quiet on ship? And why keep your education a secret?”

  “Lieutenant, what does that have to do with your murder inquiry?”

  “Maybe nothing. But please answer.”

  Big Brown heaved a sigh, more bored than irritated. “When my education got me no greater status in the white man’s Navy than lowly seaman, I assumed the role I’d been assigned. Simple as that.”

  “Is it?”

  “Ask Seaman Washington here—it’s a role Negroes often play, built on the assumptions of white people. A black man is stupid, slow. A big man is stupid, slow. And a big black man? That’s the idiot jackpot—and people say and do things around the likes of us that they would normally hide.”

  Eyes narrowing, Washington said, “So what have you seen or heard lately?”

  “Might be I heard those two white boys, Griffin and Whit-ford, calling Mr. Driscoll a nigger lover.”

  “Dick Driscoll?” Pete shook his head. “No, that can’t be right.”

  Washington said to Pete, “He was no bigot like our captain. Was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Pete insisted. “But he was a terrible snob. I mean, I liked him, he was a good guy, could be fun to be around. But deep down, I believe he thought all of us on this ship—hell, in this country—were beneath him.”

  “Not a matter of color, then,” Big Brown said. “More of class distinction.”

  “Bingo,” Pete said.

  Washington, looking thoughtful, said, “Maybe it’s time we talk to Griffin and Whitford.”

  Pete nodded.

  “Then I can assume,” Big Brown said, starting to get up, or trying to, “you’re finished with me?”

  “No,” Pete said. “Stay seated, please. Where were you between 23:00 and 00:30 last night?”

  The big man shrugged. “Sleeping. I go to work at 0700. I got up at six, went to the mess for breakfast, and that’s where I was when I heard about Mr. Driscoll. It’s likely others saw me asleep in my bunk. I was there all night.”

  Washington said, “We’ll check it out.”

  Big Brown frowned—an unsettling sight. The oiler said, “Are you calling me a liar, Sarge?”

  “I ain’t even callin’ you a suspect, son,” Washington said. “But we’re still going to check out your story—no insult, just fact. Anyway, I got one more question.”

  “Do you?”

  Washington leaned in. “If you hear so much, Mr. Brown, maybe you’ve heard something about Orville Monroe.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as something bad enough we might want to know about it.”

  “Pertaining to this inquiry?”

  “Orville found the body. He’s in this.”

  Big Brown sucked in a bushel of air, let it out through his nostrils. Pete would have sworn he felt his hair ruffle. Finally Big Brown said, “Not directly.”

  “Indirectly, then?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” Washington asked. “What the hell is ‘perhaps’ supposed to mean in the damn scheme of things?”

  Big Brown did his best to shift in the cramped chair. “Some of the boys were talking about finding Orv in the head . . . crying. They asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Scuttlebutt is, the boy’s losin’ his grip. Griffin and Whitford weren’t the only ones giving Orville a bad time. He was getting plenty of grief from our guys, too. World’s not easy for homosexuals, you know. Negro homosexual in the service? Recipe for tragedy.”

  “Any talk of Orv getting forced to do things?”

  “Such as?”

  “Sex acts.”

  “No. No, nothing like that.”

  “What, then?”

  “Like I said, he gets picked on. I stick up for him sometimes, but I can’t be everywhere. I’m not Superman.”

  Even if he did have a secret identity.

  Washington sighed. “Well, thanks, Big Brown—we’ll let you know if there’s anything else.”

  “If I think of something I’ll tell you,” he said. “Can’t be having our officers butchered onboard—even white ones.”

  The big man extricated himself from the little chair, and trundled out.

  The two white sailors were brought in separately. Washington figured Whitford was weaker than Griffin, and if either non-com had something to hide, the two investigators would have a better chance of prying it out of the former than the latter.

  On the other hand, if Whitford hadn’t talked, Griffin wouldn’t know it, and might be buffaloed into thinking his pal had “ratted him out.” Washington’s thinking seemed convoluted to Pete, but he went along, having no better idea.

  Whitford entered the mess.

  Lanky, with a dirt-brown butch haircut and blue-gray eyes, he was bow-legged and rolled a toothpick around his mouth. Taking the same seat Big Brown had, Whitford faced Pete and tried his best to pretend that Washington wasn’t even there.

  He had a West Texas drawl, which gave a lilting countrified music to his speech
. “And what can I do you for, Mr. Maxwell?”

  Pete gave him a slow, easy smile. “You can answer a few questions.”

  The toothpick traveled. “Glad to.”

  “Seaman Washington will be asking them.”

  Whitford stared blankly for several seconds, then blinked a few times, the toothpick hanging limply from his lower lip. Finally he said, “Now that’s going to be a problem.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t answer him, it will be. Because I’m giving you a direct order to do so. Understood?”

  Whitford shrugged and sneered, just a little, as if to himself.

  Pete leaned across. “Want to keep those stripes, or would you rather go from petty officer back to seaman? Word from me, your gear gets moved in with the rest of the crew members. How does that sound?”

  The implication was clear: answer Washington’s questions or go in with the Negroes.

  Captain Egan had given the petty officers two cabins whose doors had locks. In the fo’c’sle, Whitford would be at the mercy of men who’d heard the white petty officer’s openly racist remarks.

  “Like I said,” Whitford said, with the sickest smile Pete had ever witnessed, “glad to help, any way I can.”

  His scarred face an unreadable mask, Washington gazed down at their subject. “You worked till midnight last night?”

  Whitford did not look at Washington, staring straight ahead, just past Pete’s ear. But the man spoke: “Yeah. Midnight.”

  Washington continued: “Did you see Mr. Driscoll go into shaft alley?”

  He worked the toothpick. “Nope.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Just that little nigger cocksucker, Monroe . . .”

  Washington backhanded him.

  Whitford got halfway out of his chair, his eyes going to Pete, who sat with arms folded, immobile. The Texan’s toothpick was missing in action.

  “You saw that, sir!” Whitford said, voice harsh as broken glass. “This fucking nigger—”

  Pete’s slap cut off whatever the rest of that was going to be. He’d gotten to his feet in a fraction of an instant and caught Whitford on the other cheek with an open hand, an enforced version of the Christian turn-the-other-cheek rule.

  “You keep your language within bounds, Whitford,” Pete said crisply, seated again. “Understood?”

  Wide-eyed, still half out of his chair, Whitford said, “Yes, sir.”

  Whitford might be a white man but his face was largely scarlet.

  “You may think you’re in the Navy,” Pete said, “but you’re not. You’re behind closed doors in a murder investigation, dealing with the two sorry bastards given the job. Washington used to be a Chicago cop, by the way, and they have distinctive methods of interrogation. Now, sit your ass down and try again.”

  Clearly frightened, Whitford did as he was told; he touched the cheek Washington had slapped. “What did you ask me? I . . . I forget.”

  Washington said, “You saw Orville Monroe . . .”

  “Yeah, Monroe went into shaft alley. Just before midnight.”

  “When did he come out?”

  “Honest, fellas, I don’t know—my shift was over.”

  Washington paced a little patch near the table. “We hear you and your friend Griffin called Mr. Driscoll a ‘nigger lover.’ Is that right?”

  Nervous, not wanting to get slapped again, Whitford said, “That’s a load of horseshit. We never—”

  “We heard this from Big Brown, by the way.” Washington shrugged, smiled. “I’d feel obligated to let him know you called him a liar.”

  “I never said it! I swear to you, I never said it.”

  “How about your friend Griffin?”

  “He . . . he mighta used that particular turn of phrase a time or two.”

  “What did he mean by that? Nigger lover?”

  Whitford shrugged. “Nothin’. Just that Driscoll seemed to take a shine to some of them shines.”

  Realizing what he’d said, Whitford winced; but nothing happened.

  “Any particular shine?” Washington asked.

  “I saw him talking to the little fag . . . to Orville.”

  “Guy talking to a fag,” Washington said, “guy talking to a nigger fag . . . ain’t that a lynchin’ offense back home where you come from? And when no rope’s handy, there’s always a knife or a razor. . . .”

  Whitford’s eyes went wild. “Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute, just hold on—we didn’t kill nobody!”

  The petty officer looked petrified now. Taking a couple slaps for slips of the lip was one thing, getting court-martialed for murder another.

  “You fellas ask Griffin. Him and me were on deck, smoking after our shift; then we went and talked to Mr. Rosetti about the engine problem. Griff thinks he might know a way to fix it. Anyway, you can ask Mr. Rosetti. He’ll vouch for us.”

  Washington hammered the shaken Whitford for another fifteen minutes, but the non-com’s story stayed the same.

  When they were alone, Pete said, “Did you have to slap that jackass?”

  “Did you?”

  “Had to back you up, didn’t I? Jesus, man, he outranks you.”

  Washington shrugged. “He ain’t an officer. Petty officer’s just another enlisted man, with a better pay grade. Anyway, behind closed doors? Nobody outranks me.”

  Pete shook his head, but had to grin.

  When Griffin was brought in, his story paralleled Whitford’s. In an interview devoid of the melodramatics of the previous one, the other engine-room sailor took questioning from Washington without complaint and was smart enough, in the face of a murder inquiry, not to indulge in race-baiting.

  When Griffin was gone, Washington got Pete and himself coffee, then flopped into the chair opposite. “Damnit! Sons of bitches’re telling the truth.”

  “Easy enough to check with Rosetti.” Pete sipped the hot black liquid. “So if Vince backs ’em up, have we lost our best suspects?”

  “You mean our best white suspects, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry.” Washington was stirring sugar into his coffee, already loaded with cream. “You and Mr. Rosetti and Mr. Connor were in that quartet with the victim, right? Mr. Driscoll was your friend?”

  “Yes he was. Meaning there’s no reason to think Vince would lie for Griffin and Whitford—he’s as anxious to nab Dick’s killer as anybody.”

  Washington hit a fist on the tabletop; the coffee cups jumped. “We’re chasing our damn tails. We interviewed everybody around the engine room, time of the murder . . . and nobody says they saw Driscoll or his killer go into shaft alley.”

  “If all our witnesses are telling the truth,” Pete said, “then the only way Dick and his killer could’ve got in shaft alley was by going down that escape tunnel. Both of them.”

  “Yeah,” Washington said, and gestured with empty hands. “Only why in hell would they?”

  Pete was trying to find a reasonable answer to that one when the battle-stations horn brayed and he plunked his coffee cup down, half-spilling what was left of it. He came out of the booth on the run, heading for his cabin to get his gear.

  Right behind him, Washington dogged Pete’s heels till they got to the staircase, which the seaman flew down while Pete rounded the bend.

  Inside his cabin, Pete grabbed his helmet and life jacket— Connor’s were already gone. Soon he was sprinting up to the bridge where Connor met him in the chart room.

  “Lookout spotted a Jap Zero,” Connor said tightly, eyes bright. “Circled once, seems headed back for us.”

  Pete stepped from the chart room and onto the bridge just in time to hear Egan say, “Battle stations ready?”

  The radioman next to him said, “Aye, sir. All guns reporting manned and ready.”

  Everyone on the bridge had on their life jackets and light-blue helmets, the radioman’s brain bucket oversized to allow for his headset. Frye was on radar with another Negro, Andrews, behind the wheel.

  T
he radioman announced, “Lookout reports Zero off starboard bow, coming in low and fast.”

  Egan, voice surprisingly calm, said, “Fire when ready.”

  Moving through the bridge, Pete slipped out onto the starboard bridge wing. The .20mm guns coughed their bullets and the .50 cal on the bar ripped away as well, its report deeper than the twenties.

  Then Pete saw the Zero right where it was supposed to be, high in the sky with sun glinting off a glass-covered cockpit. Machine guns erupted on each wing and spat yellow fire just as Pete realized he made one hell of a target out here in the open, and scrambled to try to correct that.

  Chapter 12

  AUGUST 31, 1944

  Bullets clanged into the ship’s bulkheads and whinged off the hull as Pete Maxwell went diving through the hatch into the pilothouse, hot slugs hissing past him like pissed-off snakes.

  He landed on his side, his uncinched helmet flying off, clattering across the bridge, his left calf stinging like hell; he jerked his knee to his chest as the phone talker bounced forward and slammed the hatch shut.

  The metallic cacophony continued all around him as he checked out the small tear in his pants leg; then he ripped it wide to reveal a small laceration where a ricocheting bullet had skimmed across his leg, going in one side of his pants leg and out the other.

  He glanced up to see Egan glowering down at him with an odd mingling of concern and irritation. “You all right, Mr. Maxwell?”

  “Just a scratch, sir,” he said, getting to his feet and testing the leg. Yes, the wound stung, but nothing more; wasn’t even bleeding much.

  Pete scuttled over to pick up his helmet, and slammed it back on, but the insistent chatter of machine-gun fire was coming strictly from his own ship now, doing its damnedest to bring down that fucking Zero.

  Then the world went quiet, like the unsettling silence that follows a thunderstorm, and Pete peered through the front-bridge porthole, seeing nothing beyond the Liberty Hill’s gun crews in their pods and the ship.

  “He’s circling around again,” the phone talker announced.

  Connor came into the pilothouse. “Where the hell’d he come from? Middle of damn nowhere.”

  Upper lip curled back, Egan said, “We’ll discuss that after we get him off our ass.”

  “Be easier if we had more power,” Connor muttered.