Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  Time to move.

  But he only traveled two steps before his path was cut off by steward’s mate Willie Wilson.

  The .45 was in his waistband, and Pete could have pulled it; but the last thing he wanted to do was aim that weapon at an innocent man again.

  And Wilson showed no fear of Pete or the gun in his belt. The steward moved closer and whispered, “Mr. Maxwell, what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s bad, Willie—”

  “Bad don’t cover it! Captain’s on the squawk box, sayin’ you killed Mr. Driscoll and Orville.”

  “I didn’t. The captain did. He’s out of his goddamn mind.”

  Wilson nodded. “That’s how I read it, but there’s plenty who will buy whatever Egan sells ’em. Only way to work this out is get you to the brig, and put some reliable men on the door, so that bastard can’t get to you.”

  “No, Willie—I need to talk to Sarge! I need—”

  But a pistol report interrupted, and Willie’s eyes widened; then Willie fell limply towards Pete, who caught the dead man in his arms.

  Wilson’s collapse gave him a view of Egan, nine or ten yards forward on deck, pistol in hand, planted and poised to squeeze off a second round.

  Pete could only use the bulk of Wilson’s body for cover, ducking, as above him the second shot hit the back of Wilson’s head; in a haze of reddish mist, Pete felt the force of the shot and the literal dead weight of Wilson send him on his back, onto the hard deck. With the corpse on top of him, Pete could not get to his .45; so he pushed the body rudely off and rolled back under the gun platform, hoping for enough cover to circle around Egan, and go up the port side as the captain came aft, starboard.

  That was when the horn for battle stations sounded— had Egan, losing control, sounded goddamn fucking battle stations over his fugitive? Pete had a surrealistic flash of himself zigzagging around the deck, as all the twenties, the fifty cal on the bow, and the five-inch gun over his head all turned their firepower his way. . . .

  Then the muffled mechanical purr of a not-too-distant Japanese Zero told Pete that a crazed captain was no longer the Liberty Hill’s biggest problem. That plane Orville crippled must have made it back to its carrier, after all! And the Japs had searched for the wounded U.S. ship, and had now finally caught up with them.

  They were close to full steam now, but their meager armaments would provide scant protection against a swarm of angry Zeroes, and any assistance was nowhere near at hand.

  Alone on deck, Pete looked around him on all sides and saw no sign of Egan, though of course the gray rugged landscape of the ship gave the captain plenty of places to hide behind and sneak around, and Egan had his own .45, a powerful pistol that could blow your skull apart.

  But the battle-stations bellow sent Negro sailors streaming on deck, heading for their positions in the gun tubs. Glad to be lost in a crowd, even a lone white face in a black one, Pete finally caught sight of Egan, loping for the wheelhouse. Was the psychopath on the run to take Washington out, while everybody else was on deck fighting the war? Or was the captain reverting to command mode, taking charge in the impending fight?

  Either way, Pete had to pursue Egan; the crew would have to deal with the Japs—he had his own battle to wage. He sprinted up starboard, his pace punctuated by the overhead chatter of machine guns. Still running, he glanced back and winced at the orange blur of the rising sun from which emerged a Zero, diving.

  Bullets chewed the deck as he leapt for cover. As the plane swooped past, Pete sprang from his hiding place and, staying low, jogged to the entrance of the wheelhouse.

  Right before he entered, he caught another Zero lining up at three o’clock, a torpedo hanging ominously from its belly, ready to give terrible birth. A frozen Pete watched agape as the torpedo detached and hit the water with a tiny splash, like a child off a pier, its wake marking the progress of the fish toward their exposed flank.

  The Japs had no idea just how big an explosion their torpedoes could trigger with a hit on the Liberty Hill.

  Snapping out of it, he dashed through the hatchway, not allowing his eyes time to adjust to the dark as he ran blindly for the stairs. Two flights later, he stood on the bridge wing, aware that Connor had seen the torpedo as well and turned the ship toward it.

  The torpedo streaked toward the slowly turning Liberty Hill Victory and, for the briefest moment, Pete thought the fish might miss them.

  Then the torpedo hit the propeller and rudder, exploding in a fireball that erupted over the stern. Pete knew instantly it was a mortal wound: death would not be instantaneous, but without power and steering, the ship Driscoll had called USS Powderkeg was now a sitting duck for the swarm of Zeroes.

  And the first torpedo to hit one of the holds would send them up in a Port Chicago-style inglorious blaze.

  Entering the bridge, Pete witnessed a remarkable tableau: Egan, eyes as wild as the brows above, waving a pistol at a helmsman no longer in control of the ship. The radioman and radarman stood motionless, hovering over Ben Connor, sprawled on deck, blood trickling from his forehead. Had Egan pistol-whipped him?

  Not waiting for an answer, not even asking the question aloud, the XO of the Liberty Hill—ignoring the burn of pain in his right arm, where Egan had slashed him, blood still dripping and soaking his shirt—raised his .45 pistol and shot his captain in the back, the report in the confined space like another torpedo going off.

  Egan tossed the gun as if to an invisible ally, and a scarlet flower blossomed between the captain’s shoulder blades as the once-commanding figure took a weird bow on his way down, hitting with a whump.

  Pushing up with one hand, Connor stared wide-eyed at the unconscious captain, who’d joined him on deck. “He was a goddamn lunatic! What the hell happened?”

  “I’ll explain in a lifeboat, if we’re lucky,” Pete said. “Right now we’ve got to abandon ship—that fucking fish knocked out the prop and rudder. Making us the biggest goddamn target in the Pacific.”

  “That’s what I told Egan!” Connor said, Pete helping him up. “Tried to, anyway. He wouldn’t listen!”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Won’t be pretty, but yes.”

  “Sound abandon ship then, and get every man the hell off, before the next torpedo hits the jackpot.”

  “What about that sack of shit?” Connor asked, indicating the fallen Egan.

  “Let him go down with his damn ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” And Connor hit the abandon ship alarm. “Aren’t you leading the way?”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Pete yelled. “I’ve still got business on this tub. Now go! Save the men!”

  Then, through the starboard hatchway, the surreal image of a flaming Zero was coming straight at them. Everybody ducked, as if that would do a damn bit of good and, at the last moment, the Zero dove, crashing into the ship at about the waterline.

  With this the Liberty Hill rocked to port, knocking all of them off their feet. Pete knew damn well the plane had hit the engine—Griffin, Whitford, and Wallace would almost certainly have been killed on impact. Ears ringing, he felt the ship immediately rock back to starboard, and start to list—seawater would be pouring through the gash in the ship’s hull.

  Connor was the first on his feet, this time. “Are you all right, Pete?”

  “Yeah,” Pete yelled, still on deck. “Go!”

  Connor shoved the other three men out the port side hatch, then with a last glance, saluted Pete and said, “See you in the boats, sir!”

  Pete nodded and, for several moments, just lay there on the deck, trying to catch a second wind but pulling in the stench of burning oil. If only he could go to sleep, maybe just for a few minutes . . . why did everything feel so heavy?

  Get up, Kay said. Get up!

  Tired . . . so tired. . . .

  You get up and get out of there! I could be expecting! Don’t you want to know your son? Or your daughter?

  I’m a father?

  The tire
dness faded and he looked down at himself and saw blood leaking through his pants leg. Piece of shrapnel. Leg felt cold, but there was surprisingly little pain. Struggling to his knees, he realized suddenly that Egan was staring at him.

  “Help me,” the captain said. “Don’t let me die like this. . . .”

  Pete got to his feet. “I’m hurt myself. I couldn’t carry you if I wanted. That wound’ll kill you, anyway. I gave it to you, by the way.”

  “I can make it. Get some men. I can . . . make it. . . .”

  “You taught me well, Captain. Command is about making the hard decisions. But the truth is—this one isn’t that hard.”

  As Pete left the bridge, even over the explosions and screams of the wounded and dying, he could still hear Egan shouting obscenities at him.

  The wheelhouse was practically deserted now as Pete made his way back down the stairs, ending up in the sick bay. Cots and cabinets had been tossed around like a giant baby’s toys. The wounded—no doubt including Sarge—had been cleared out, which was a good thing. The plane that crashed into the engine room had sent shrapnel flying everywhere and sick bay had a hole in its side you could drive a Jeep through, the ocean plainly visible, climbing ever closer to the hole as the ship did its best to sink before blowing up.

  Topside, by now, Rosetti and Connor would be getting the lifeboats loaded. That would be Pete’s next stop, making sure they got everybody off. He was on his way out when he heard a moan from the wreckage.

  When the Zero struck the engine room, the generators must have been taken out as well—the only light in sick bay right now came from sun seeping through the gaping hole in the hull. Carefully moving wreckage aside, metal chunks (still hot) and assorted rubble, Pete searched for the source of the moans.

  Pinned under a steel beam was a colored man’s leg, still attached apparently. Working his way up from the foot, he yanked away sheets, pillows and chunks of mattress until, like a present he’d unwrapped, he found the face of Sarge Washington.

  “What the hell are you still doing here?” Pete demanded.

  “Just another lazy colored boy can’t get his ass out of bed,” Washington said. “I was helpin’ out the corpsmen on deck—lots of wounded up there. Then I figured somebody oughta come back for Lassiter, but there was an explosion, over by where his cot was.”

  “No sign of him now.”

  “Not likely there’d be.”

  “Can you move?”

  “You may not be the craziest white motherfucker I ever saw, but you are surely the dumbest. Sir.”

  “You mean—if you could move—”

  “If I could move I would not be on this sinking son of a bitch, yes, sir.”

  “Then maybe I better lend you a hand.”

  “Start with gettin’ this fuckin’ beam off me.”

  Pete gripped the end of the beam and lifted, putting his back and legs into it as best he could at that angle. The beam budged, barely. When he let it back down, Washington shook his head and grinned without humor.

  “Motherfucker’s broken,” Washington said, meaning his leg. “Never be able to move well enough, even if we get it out. . . . Get your white ass off this ship before it goes Fourth of July on you, son.”

  “Giving orders to a superior officer now?”

  “Uppity, ain’t I?”

  Pete got up and moved through the shadows looking for a bar or chunk of wood strong enough to pry the beam up. Finally he found a shorter section of beam, which would have to do.

  He stepped over and around assorted rubble, returned to Washington, and was about to wedge the smaller piece under the beam when the ship rolled, throwing Pete across the room, smacking him into a bulkhead.

  Getting his breath, making sure he hadn’t broken anything himself, Pete could see water flooding in now through the ragged cavity in the hull. Soon he was soaked, and the water was threatening to engulf the sad remains of sick bay. He threw a desperate glance toward Washington, still sitting, his shoulders barely above the lapping seawater.

  “You okay?” Washington called.

  “Haven’t . . . haven’t been hit that hard since Simpson lost homecoming.”

  “Ha! Listen, that roll knocked the beam off my leg.”

  “Can you get up? Can you hobble out of here?”

  “I dunno. I don’t think so.”

  “I knocked my knee. Not broken, but the same one I caught shrapnel in . . . I don’t think I’m much better off.” Pete got up and limped and sloshed over to Washington, the water up to the sailor’s neck now. Pete held out a hand and Sarge took it; together they pooled enough strength to get Sarge up on his good leg, an arm slung around Pete’s shoulder.

  Sarge shook his head. “I dunno, man. Maybe you have a better shot at this on your steam.”

  “I don’t think I can hack it alone, buddy. True what they say about colored guys?”

  “That we dance good?”

  “That you can’t swim.”

  “Shit, I can learn. Even with one pin broke.”

  “Okay, then. Means all we got to do is get over to that door the Japs made for us. . . .”

  Together, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder, they waded over to the hole, pushing against the force of water rushing in.

  They were next to the ragged-edged aperture when Washington said, “Captain done it, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What happen to him?”

  “I shot him in the back.”

  Washington grinned. “You’re learning.”

  And Washington dove out onto the water, paddling against the current, and when the seaman had cleared the ragged teeth of the opening, Pete dove in after, and in seconds they were clear.

  The two men swam alongside each other, both using mostly their arms, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the dying Liberty Hill Victory before it could blow itself and them to heaven or hell, as the case might be.

  But the USS Powderkeg never blew—true, her death could have been more dignified, as she slowly turned over and showed her belly to the sun, before slipping under. But the girl never lost her temper.

  Thirty yards from where the ship slipped under, Pete— pausing with Sarge to tread the warm, bath-like water and catch some breath—spotted the lifeboat: Rosetti in the nose, Big Brown guiding the rudder. Weakly, Pete waved until Rosetti noticed him and they rowed over. While they waited, Pete slowly scanned the sky—the Zeroes were gone, their work done.

  The lifeboat was nearly full, but they would make room for two more. Big Brown came forward to help Rosetti while one of the others tended the rudder. Washington with his broken leg took some doing, but thank God for Big Brown, who lifted Sarge from the choppy water as if a child to set down gently within the boat.

  Still in the water, Pete asked, “Connor make it?”

  Rosetti nodded and grinned. “Got his own little command. He’s trolling for stragglers, too. What about Egan? They say he went off his nut.”

  “Later,” Pete begged off. “For now, just say . . . he didn’t make it.”

  “Think we saved most of the crew,” Rosetti said.

  “Good work, Vince.”

  Big Brown hoisted Pete out of the water and into the boat and helped him over to where he could sit next to Rosetti, who saluted.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Rosetti said.

  Chapter 15

  AUGUST 27, 1989

  On a beautiful sunny Sunday, just as morning was blurring into afternoon, a blue rental Pontiac Bonneville rolled to the curb in front of a small brick house with a well-tended lawn in a middle-class neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago. A concrete driveway to the left of the house led around to a two-car garage. Flowers colorfully accented areas under the windows and neatly trimmed evergreen bushes guarded either side of the walk.

  Pete Maxwell had not been this nervous since that similar summer day in ’44 when the Fantail Four had rolled up in a Jeep to goggle at a company of African Americ
ans doing calisthenics on Treasure Island.

  Kay squeezed his arm. “They could be eating lunch. Really kind of terrible just to drop in. You sure about this?”

  Pete shrugged. “Number’s unlisted. Must still be working as a cop.”

  “Honey, he has to be over seventy—he couldn’t still be working.”

  “He might’ve made enemies. It’ll be fine. We’re friends.”

  But the friends hadn’t seen each other since the war ended, and the Christmas cards had stopped maybe fifteen years ago and the friendly notes five years before that. As with all men of his generation who served, the war, the experiences, good and bad, the friends he made, were ever with Pete. He often talked to Kay and their son about those days, but it was always funny stories, or things he was proud of, like going to bat for the crew and getting them food or shoes or comic books to learn from.

  Never about the Zero attacks, or the murders, or the other nerve-rattling ordeals that he still dreamed about, at least once a month.

  The inquiry into the murders aboard the Liberty Hill Victory was a behind-closed-doors affair at Tarawa, where various crew members had been recuperating; the surviving three of the Fantail Four, and a handful of others in the know, were questioned individually, advised that the matter was a confidential one, and told any further discussion of these events among the participants (much less the public) would result in serious ramifications. Pete had realized this was a cover-up, of course, but also understood what a wartime public relations nightmare revealing the truth would have been.

  No official statement was made, although Orville Monroe and Willie Wilson received posthumous Silver Stars for their heroism in the Jap Zero attack. The captain’s record was left unblemished, although the lack of any posthumous recognition may have left a question mark in the minds of some. Years later Richard Driscoll’s family made a political fuss about Dick’s lack of recognition, but—for reasons Pete never knew yet could guess—that had fizzled.