“Thank you for the pointless observation,” Egan snapped. “Helmsman, commence a zig-zag course. Won’t do much good, but it’s something.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said, and spun the wheel to starboard.
That this was an ammo ship would be unknown to the pilot, and anyway their explosive cargo was unlikely to be ignited even if a bullet beat long odds and penetrated their hull, its speed slowed into impotence. Still, it never felt good, sailing Dick Driscoll’s USS Powderkeg, getting blasted at.
The phone talker, in a terrible matter-of-fact monotone, said, “He’s coming for another pass, sir.”
Without waiting for further orders, the ship’s machine guns again fired away. Their rat-a-tat report might have reassured Pete if he hadn’t also been able to hear the approaching plane’s propeller. Through that porthole he could see the plane bearing down on them, directly along the line of the bow. The .50 caliber on the bow was firing as were the twenties on either side.
Seeing the flashes of the Zero’s machine guns, Pete knew the pilot was targeting the bridge, and yelled, “Duck!” as he hurled himself to the deck.
Everybody except Connor, who dove into the chart room, responded wrong, glancing at Pete and not immediately taking his advice before four portholes across the front of the bridge had time to shatter under the Zero’s firepower, bullets tearing through the safety glass and whanging off the gray metal around them.
From the deck, Pete watched aghast as the helmsman slapped at his chest, like swatting a fly, but this was no insect bite—a telltale red mist emerged around fingers as the helmsman crashed into the back wall of the pilothouse and sagged to the deck.
Near the helm, the radarman plunged from the path of bullets chewing up the wall behind where he’d stood. Off to one side enough to avoid the bullets, the phone talker had nonetheless taken a shard of glass in his cheek, embedded there like a jagged chunk of ice, and he dropped to the deck, screaming.
Throughout the fracas, Captain Egan stood fast, a statue, as an awful storm of glass and blood flew all around him, and yet he never so much as flinched. Pete was amazed—was this man incredibly brave, or a complete idiot?
The roar of the plane flying over signaled the stoppage, for now, of enemy bullets; what had seemed like ten minutes to Pete had been perhaps ten seconds. He got himself to his feet as Egan knelt next to the phone talker, taking the man’s headset. Around them, the ship’s machine guns continued to grunt their angry response into the sky.
Into the headset, Egan, his voice firm but calm, said, “Corpsman to the bridge, corpsman to the bridge.” Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Maxwell, take the helm.”
Looking down at the dead helmsman, Pete fought against being sick and, for now, won. He dragged the body out and climbed into the narrow space between the wheel and the rear bulkhead of the pilothouse. He took the wooden wheel in both hands and felt the stickiness of the dead man’s blood, still hanging in scarlet droplets on the spokes.
Every ship in the Navy had to have a corpsman, if not a ship’s doctor. The Liberty Hill Victory had been put on line so fast, during such a shortage of doctors, that the closest thing they had were two Negroes who’d taken Navy advanced first aid.
They also had Rosetti, who was first to make it to the bridge; his police background had included some medical training. Anyway, he didn’t need a degree from Johns Hopkins medical school to pronounce the helmsman dead. The radarman was frightened but otherwise fine, and the only other injury was the phone talker with the piece of glass in his cheek.
“It’s deep,” Rosetti said, not to his patient but to the captain. “I’ll get him down to the sick bay and get a corpsman to get it out.”
As Rosetti helped the injured man to his feet, Egan got on the headset again. “Phone talker to the bridge, any available phone talker to the bridge. Helmsman to the bridge, any available helmsman to the bridge.”
Putting the injured man’s arm around his shoulders, Rosetti led the in-shock sailor out through the chart room and down the stairs. Shortly after, Connor came in, from the chart room.
“Radio’s shot to shit, sir. Took two hits.”
“Thank you, Mr. Connor,” Egan said. “Mr. Maxwell! The lookout is reporting Zero coming around again. Zig-zag course.”
Again firepower erupted from the shipboard guns. Hot wind blew through the broken portholes, and Pete could see the plane bearing down on its inexorable death-and-taxes path. He waited for the next burst from the plane’s machine guns before he spun the wheel to the left, taking them out of the line of fire, he hoped . . . but at one-third power, it was more prayer than hope.
He braced himself for the next wave of bullets, but it didn’t come—instead, the sputtering of the plane’s engine told a new story, as did the whoop that went from the crew. Through the porthole in the starboard hatch, Pete caught a glimpse of the Zero as it staggered down that side of the ship, a trail of black smoke behind it.
Egan spoke into the headset again. “He’s turning away? Good, good. Pass the word—remain at battle stations, but stand easy.”
“We got him?” Connor asked.
“We did,” Egan said, as if reporting that Fibber McGee and Molly would be on at eight tonight. “Bastard’s not dead, but he’s hurt and won’t be back—trying to save his Jap ass.” Then, into the headset, he said, “Do we know who scored the hit?” He listened. “Send him up here—I want to shake his hand.”
Helmsman Jackson came onto the bridge and relieved Pete, who stepped over beside Connor.
Through the doorway into the chart room, Pete could see the radio, two bullet holes like black eyes staring back at him. Already the Liberty Hill was sailing on Egan’s dead reckoning alone, thanks to the low clouds that’d dogged the ship since before the storm. They were off course, that much was certain; but how far was anybody’s guess and, now, without the radio, calling for help was out.
Their best hope now lay with the clouds clearing, giving them the chance to get a bearing by stars or sun.
From outside the pilothouse, cheers announced that the man who’d made the vital shot was getting an ovation on his way to the bridge. The starboard side hatch opened and the entire crew of the three-inch .50-caliber gun from the bow rolled in. Four were seamen with whom Pete had dealt only minimally; but one was Big Brown, another, country-kid Hazel Ricketts, and trailing in came delicate little Orville Monroe.
Dutifully, Egan shook each black hand as the gun crew crowded onto the bridge, lined up and snapped to attention.
“At ease,” Egan said.
They relaxed, slightly.
“Which sailor made the shot?” Egan asked.
The perpetually nervous Monroe stepped forward, his eyes lowered as if the captain were the pope.
“I guess it was me, sir,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Big Brown said, “It was Orville, sir. He gets the kewpie doll.”
Egan stepped forward, and shook the little man’s hand, vigorously, all the while Monroe’s gaze remaining shyly on the floor.
What’s it take to make this little guy happy, anyway? Pete wondered. The crew that’d made Orville’s life miserable since June was now cheering for him—the “little fairy” was a big hero! Too little too late, maybe?
“That was a hell of a shot, young man,” Egan said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Damned near ripped the end of the wing right off,” Ricketts put in, grinning. “That Jap wasn’t flyin’ nowhere near straight, when he lit out!”
The gun crew and the captain shared some nervous laughter.
“Well done,” the captain said. “Well done all around.”
An awkward few moments followed—if the gun crew was thinking Egan would promise them commendations or medals, Pete figured they were mistaken. They’d done a good job, but in this captain’s eyes, these were still “coloreds.” Orville Monroe alone seemed to know that, stealing an occasional glance at the dreaded captain—reflecting, as Sarge had
explained to Pete, the usual trepidation this young Negro felt around the white officers.
“Anyway,” Egan sighed, “good job, all of you. Let’s stay alert in case our wayward Jap comes back with friends. Dismissed.”
The gun crew filed out the starboard hatch with Monroe as eager to lead the way out as he’d been to bring up the rear coming in.
The cheering started again as soon as Orville and his crewmates stepped through the hatchway. Pete hoped the crew would remember that this little guy had saved the ship, and grant him belated acceptance, never falling back into their own prejudices. But he had his doubts.
Although the Zero was a memory, its trail of black smoke long since dissipated, the ship stayed at battle stations for another two hours, after which the captain settled for double lookouts and let the remainder of the crew get some rest.
Except for Pete.
Egan instructed his XO to resume the murder inquiry, at once, which Pete would have done, anyway. He was soon scouring the ship for his fellow investigator, but found no sign of Washington—not in the fo’c’sle or on the boat deck, not even back on the bridge. Pete tried down on the main deck, moved aft on the port side, then forward up the starboard side.
Nobody seemed to have seen Sarge.
Finally, out of desperation, he checked the different rooms in the wheelhouse, winding up at sick bay.
A handsome Negro named Jasper Jensen sat at his corpsman’s desk in a corner near the hatchway, working on a report under a small lamp. The rest of sick bay lights were out, making it easier for the wounded to rest.
The deceased helmsman—whose corpse had been temporarily moved into the meat locker with Driscoll’s—had been the only fatality; but there’d been other casualties.
The phone talker Rosetti brought down here for stitching up was doing fine, asleep on his cot. Next cot over lay a gunner’s mate who’d caught a bullet in the leg, and on the cot beyond, much to Pete’s dismay, rested Seaman Ulysses Grant Washington.
Sarge had a bandage across his forehead, Spirit of ’76 style, stained scarlet at left, along his temple; his eyes were closed and, in the sick bay’s dim light, Pete could barely make out the rise and fall of his friend’s chest. At least it was rising and falling. . . .
Jensen materialized at Pete’s side.
“How bad?” Pete whispered.
“Not so bad,” the corpsman said, also sotto voce. “Bullet skimmed off his head. Got himself another scar, and maybe a concussion, but I can’t see as he’ll have no permanent damage.”
“Thank God.”
“ ’Course,” Jensen said good-naturedly, “I ain’t no doctor. Leastwise my pay don’t reflect it.”
“We’re all grateful for what you do know, Corpsman. Okay I talk to him?”
“You can sit there. If he wakes up, just keep it short, will ya?”
“Sure,” Pete said.
The corpsman moved away and Pete pulled up a folding chair. Almost immediately the bandaged seaman’s eyes flickered open, and he got a feeble smile going.
“Thought I hear your deathless baritone,” Washington said, voice a little raspy.
“You sound lively enough. How do you feel?”
Washington winced. “No worse than if Big Brown tore off my head and took a shit down my throat.”
“Makes sense. About how you look.”
Washington grinned. “Here I was hoping Lena Horne might drop by and instead I get one of the Three Stooges.”
“Fantail Four, you mean.”
“No. Only three of you now. And don’t look at me to fill in—I’m no tenor. Didn’t happen to run into our killer during that little air raid?”
“No. But I think maybe that Jap drilled some sense in me. Because I came up with a few new questions.”
“Every investigation needs questions. You think maybe I got the answers?”
“Maybe.” Pete leaned in. “Everybody we talked to so far has an alibi, right?”
“More or less.”
“And we’ve checked them all out?”
“Best we could.”
“And they all seem to hold up?”
“Far as it goes. ’Course, we ain’t talked to everybody yet.”
“How many men have we not interviewed?”
“A bunch . . . but we have talked to them we know was anywhere near the engine room last night.”
Pete lifted his eyebrows. “Still, could be somebody on the ship who’s got nothing to do with the engine room—right?”
Washington’s expression was either thoughtful or a sign of discomfort. “Yeah, sure, right. . . . Help me with this fuckin’ pillow.”
Pete did.
Sitting up better, Washington said, “I had prettier nurses.”
“You’re welcome,” Pete said. He sat forward. “How many men knew about the escape tunnel, you suppose?”
Washington grunted a laugh. “I asked you the same damn thing down in shaft alley, and you didn’t have no answer.”
“Not sure I’ve got one now. But I do know I had no idea that damn passage existed. And you didn’t know about it, either—right?”
Washington risked a shrug. “Didn’t need to. If you didn’t work down there, why would you?”
“Wouldn’t you say that’s true for 99 percent of the crew, too?”
“I’ll give you that.”
“Which means we should concentrate on those aboard who did know about that passage—the oilers, boiler men, engine room chiefs. What’s that, seven guys?”
Washington’s eyes were steady and a little cold. “Don’t forget the officers, Lieutenant. The white officers?”
“The officers didn’t necessarily know about the passage, but they had access to the information, if they had any reason to. . . .” Pete stopped himself, considered for a long moment. “Maybe . . . maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong.”
“What way?”
“Let’s go back to Orville.”
Washington gave up half a smile. “Kid was a hero today, I hear.”
“Yeah. But he took his praise up on the bridge like a whipped puppy. He’s still scared, and not just little-coloredfairy scared—I mean scared for his life.”
“Scared that this big guy who’s been using him like a plaything is gonna keep on doin’ the same?”
“Not that. I’m wondering if there’s a connection between Orville’s ‘problem’ and Dick’s death.”
Washington frowned, tried to sit up even more. “What the hell could it be?”
“Well, we wondered where there could ever be enough privacy on a crowded ship like this for what Orville said was going on. Engaging in perverted acts like that, aboard a Navy ship, can—”
“Get a man killed?”
“Right. Or thrown out of the service, and the best you could hope for is every other guy on the crew knows about it and rags you every day and night.”
“But the crew has been raggin’ Orville.”
Pete nodded. “They have, but if somebody actually saw him performing these acts, ragging would just be the start— there’d be beatings, for sure. God knows what they’d do to the likes of Orville, such a case.”
Washington’s expression was somber. “So these sex acts got to take place somewhere really fuckin’ private.”
Pete nodded. “Like shaft alley.”
“Like shaft alley. And it was Orville’s shift. . . .”
“Right. Maybe Dick caught the guy, well, forcing Orville, and tried to bust it up, and got killed for his trouble.”
Slowly Washington began to nod. “So we need to talk to Orville again.”
“I need to. You need to feel better.” Pete got to his feet. “You rest—I’ll report back.”
Washington was sitting up without the pillow’s aid now. “Mr. Maxwell—that’s a good theory you come up with, but keep in mind—it’s just a theory. Seaman Monroe was in that tunnel and unaccounted for, too. Just because he didn’t have any blood on his clothes or hands when he come out don’t mean
he couldn’t have been the killer. So you keep that in mind when you come up against him, or maybe that Jap won’t be Orville’s only kill today.”
Pete’s eyes narrowed. “You think Orville could be the killer?”
“Little guys who get picked on make real good killers. And you need to ask yourself what Mr. Driscoll mighta been doin’ in shaft alley with Orville.”
“ . . . What are you saying?”
Washington shrugged. “There is other kinds of big, powerful men than the likes of Big Brown and yours truly. Officers are big, powerful men, too.”
“Dick Driscoll! Don’t talk crazy—”
“Don’t get yourself all riled, Lieutenant. A little colored feller like Orville would do most anything a big white officer like your Mr. Driscoll tell him to.”
“Dick was no queer!”
“Hey. Easy now. No offense meant. But you ever see him with a woman?”
“Well, sure . . .” But actually Pete wasn’t at all sure.
“And, remember, men at sea with no women is like men in prison with no women. Orville’s got a pretty mouth and he’s got his predilections. Your late friend might have been jailhouse queer.”
Pete wanted to be angry. Wanted to be indignant. But he knew Washington had a point.
“Might have been some other way,” Washington allowed. “Mr. Driscoll might come along and seen Orville with some other white officer—Mr. Rosetti, maybe. Mr. Connor.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?”
“I’m trying to make you think like a detective, because the real detective here is on a goddamn cot with his head half shot to shit. Can you carry the weight, Mr. Maxwell?”
Pete swallowed. “I can carry the weight, Sarge.”
“Good. Do it, then.”
And, for the second time today, Pete scoured the ship. The job was harder now, in the fading light, though day turning to night under the low ceiling of dense, dark clouds made only a shade of difference.
Again Pete started in the fo’c’sle, wandering up and down the rows of bunks until he got to Big Brown and Orville Monroe’s. Brown was on the bottom, but Monroe’s upper was empty.
“Any idea where Orville is?”
Big Brown was stretched out, obliterating his bunk, hands behind his head, arms winged out with the massive muscles like the work of a master sculptor. Eyes closed, face serene, he just shook his head, not even changing expression.
Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II Page 21
