Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  In a way Pete’s war had just begun on the Liberty Hill. Pete was promoted to lieutenant commander and awarded the Navy Cross; Sarge Washington had made petty officer and won the Silver Star. They and the rest of the surviving crew were transferred to Logistic Support Company 507 and posted on an APL, a nameless hotel ship minus engines in the bay between Leyte and Samar. Again they’d been sitting ducks, and this time Pete, Vince Rosetti, and Ben Connor (both promoted to lieutenant, junior grade) were joined by a handful of other white officers and the contingent of colored sailors—actually stevedores—had swollen to six hundred.

  Because the trio of officers had the respect of the core crew from the Liberty Hill—and thanks to Sarge for his help and leadership—the 507 achieved a number-one rating and never had a general or summary court-martial, which the other white-led Negro companies had all the time.

  They got out of the car, Kay silver-haired but still petite and pretty in her yellow-and-red sundress, and Pete with salt-and-pepper hair and a paunch but crisply dressed in a dark blue golf shirt and lighter blue slacks and white pat-ent-leather shoes. Arm in arm—Pete lugging the ancient battered cornet case by its frayed handle—the couple headed up the concrete walk toward the house.

  Pete swallowed, gathered courage, and rang the bell. Five seconds passed.

  Then the inside door swung open and a tall black woman with gray hair, beautiful features and a well-maintained figure peered at them through the screen. She wore the floral patterned dress she’d probably worn to church that morning, an apron snugged around her waist.

  And Pete could tell from her expression—a sort of stunned confusion—that not many white people came knocking at their door.

  “Yes?” she asked, guarded but friendly.

  “Mrs. Washington?”

  “Hmm-hmmm.”

  “I’m not sure how you call your husband, but we called him Sarge. Any chance he’s home?”

  She tilted her head, studied Pete and Kay through the mesh, obviously puzzled by their presence. “May I say who’s asking for him? We’re just sitting down to eat—”

  Kay gave her husband a nudge and a sideways look.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he blurted, flushing. “Would you just tell him that Pete Maxwell stopped by to pay his—”

  “Lieutenant Maxwell?” she asked, eyes wide. “My lord, you do exist. I was beginning to think you were a figment of my husband’s vivid imagination.”

  Behind her a deep voice, with a hint of irritation, called, “What is it, Dolores?”

  She was smiling, a very lovely smile, and shaking her head; her eyes were curtained with tears. “I believe it’s someone you’d like to see, Liss.”

  So that was what she called him: Liss, short for Ulysses. No wife could call her husband “Sarge,” after all; what, and risk being outranked?

  Sarge Washington, in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark slacks and maroon slippers, eased past his wife, opening the screen door to step out on the porch and face his past.

  The two men both smiled, and the wives would later say the pair had seemed embarrassed; they would correct that: ashamed was the right word, that they’d let so many years slip by, as if their friendship hadn’t been one of the most important parts of both their lives.

  Sarge had a paunch, too, but age hadn’t stooped him and he still had his hair (steel-gray now) and looked even more like he could handle anybody this side of Big Brown.

  Pete said, “Sorry to just drop by,” and held out his hand for Sarge to shake.

  Sarge did, but then the two sailors hugged each other without shame, each clapping the other on the back and laughing so as not to cry.

  Mrs. Washington was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, but Kay was just taking this in, fascinated, as if standing at an exhibit in a museum.

  From within the house, another deep voice called: “Mom! Dad! Are we gonna eat or not?”

  Despite the “Mom” and “Dad,” this was no child, or at least was a fully grown one—a muscular black man about thirty-five, in white short-sleeved shirt and blue tie and black trousers, filling the doorway now. “Dad?”

  “Meet Peter Maxwell,” Sarge said, gesturing as if to the next act on the bill.

  “Mr. Maxwell from the ship?” Sarge’s son’s expression indicated seeing Pete was about the same as having some other mythic figure, Davy Crockett or Paul Bunyan maybe, step from stories onto the Washington family doorstep.

  “Yes, son. White boy who saved my life.” “Is that how he tells it?” Pete said. “Heck, he saved my life!”

  Truth was, both men suddenly remembered the reality that they’d helped each other out of that ruptured sick bay; each, in the telling over the years, had turned the other into the hero of the piece.

  Extending her hand to Sarge’s wife with a smile, Kay

  said, “I’m Mrs. Maxwell—please call me Kay.” Pete, embarrassed, said, “I’m sorry, honey. . . .” “Pleased to meet you, Kay. I’m Dolores. Please, lovely as

  it is out here, you must come in.” Once inside, where chugging window air conditioners

  provided a near chill, Pete shook hands with Sarge’s son. “I’m Willie,” the younger Washington said. Pete and Sarge traded glances. Dolores said, “He’s our youngest. Named after a friend

  of—” “Ours,” Pete interrupted gently. “Great sax player, Willie

  Wilson.” “So I hear,” Willie Washington said. Dolores said, “You know, our other son should be along

  any moment now—in fact, when I heard the bell ring, I

  thought you were him.” Sarge said, “We’re about to have Sunday dinner.” Quickly Kay said, “I told this husband of mine we should

  call first; I’m so sorry to intrude . . .” “You’re not intruding,” Dolores said. “I hope you’ll join us. I always make plenty—we’re a family lives on leftovers.” “Sorry, Sarge,” Pete said, as they trooped after Dolores

  and Kay into the dining room. “You were unlisted, and I

  couldn’t find you.” “That’s okay. I always was the detective on the team.” “Hey, I did all right.” Sarge grinned. “Yeah, you did.” They’d barely reached the dining room when the door

  bell rang again, and Sarge went and got it. Moments later he was ushering in another formidable-looking black man, looking rather military in a policeman’s uniform. His dark hair was cut close to the scalp, graying a little, and he greeted the strangers with his father’s faintly mocking smile.

  Sarge said, “This is our oldest son—Peter.” No more words were necessary. Pete crossed to shake the

  man’s hand, meeting his forty-something namesake. “Are the stories true?” Peter Washington asked. “Probably not,” Pete said, and smiled. “I went into my pop’s field because it was as close to a

  family business as we’ve got. Willie there’s a cop, too, you

  know.” “I didn’t.” “But for what it’s worth, Pop seems prouder of his time in

  the Navy than anything he ever accomplished on the street. You know, he retired an inspector? Worked downtown, last ten or twelve years.”

  “Didn’t know that, either.” “Why didn’t you old boys keep in touch better?” “Because I’m almost as dumb as your dad.” Peter Washington grinned. “Well, I guess that’s possi

  ble.” They sat down at a table that fairly filled the room and ate a great big wonderful meal of roast beef and mashed potatoes and lima beans and (the only dish Kay might not have served) black-eyed peas. Everybody allowed Pete and Sarge to carry the conversation, but the two men did not reminisce, strictly catching up.

  The Maxwells had one son, who somehow made a living writing mystery novels, and Sarge said with pride that his two “flatfoot” offspring also were “weekend warrior” musicians like their old man. They both played in a combo with their pop, Willie on drums and Peter on stand-up bass.

  “Since I retired,” Sarge said, spooning a second helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate, “I been booking bands. There’s a big band we all p
lay with, for that kinda gig, and a small combo for clubs and weddings. And my sons have a little soul act that their pop ain’t hip enough to play in, but is hip enough to take 10 percent of.”

  Willie said, “Pop’s making better money booking our bands than he did on the PD.”

  “The department never was about earning money, son,” Sarge said.

  “Tell me about it!” Dolores said, which got a nice laugh all around.

  Sarge asked, “Are you still teaching school, Pete, in some little Iowa podunk? Last I heard you were.”

  “I did that for ten years,” Pete said, “and loved it. Serenity High put on the first high school productions of Oklahoma! and Carousel in the nation—you’d’ve liked ’em.”

  “Some nice tunes in those shows. But what since?”

  “Personnel manager in industry—office equipment. It’s all right—make good money and work with people, and I like people . . . mostly.”

  Sarge chuckled. “Yeah, there are exceptions. No music? Wasn’t that a cornet case you set down inside my door?”

  “Oh, I’m still active. I direct a church choir, and I’ve directed a men’s choral group since right after the war. We’ve got a men’s quartet, and I’m in it, that would put the Fantail Four to shame.”

  “I’m sure you’re good, Pete,” Sarge said, and sipped coffee. “But I doubt any four white boys could ever sing sweeter than the Fantail Four. You got no idea what that meant to us, you four fellas entertaining a bunch of lowdown colored sailors like us.”

  “We were afraid you’d be offended—spoofing the Mills Brothers, Ink Spots, and all.”

  “No. I think if there was any time in the war when I really felt that color wall come down, it was that night you guys sang and clowned around for us, like we were friends.”

  Pete shrugged. “Well . . . we were.”

  “Whatever happened to Ben? I know he stayed with Jack Benny.”

  “Yeah, Ben was lucky. I think Jack Benny must’ve been the only radio show to really carry over to TV. He wrote for all the big shows—staff writer on McHale’s Navy, remember that? Did a bunch of I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched, too.”

  “Is he . . . still with us?”

  “No, he died a couple years ago. I, uh . . .” Pete risked a smile. “ . . . I believe his fourth wife was a little too much for him. She was an actress about twenty years younger than

  him.”

  “So he died happy?”

  Dolores slapped her husband’s arm. “Ulysses Grant! Be respectful.”

  Pete laughed, and asked, “So whatever happened to Big Brown?”

  “Would you believe it,” Sarge said, “he turned up at a club gig here in town, maybe five years ago. Ol’ Simon Brown went back to college! Got his master’s.”

  “Well, he was smart enough.”

  “Sure was. Got his doctorate, became a professor of sociology at Cleveland State. Did a little volunteer football coaching on the side. What about Mr. Rosetti?”

  “Why we’re here,” Pete said, and he smiled again but there was no joy in it. “Buried him Friday, out in Los Angeles. He stayed in law enforcement a while, then started up a security firm; heart attack took him out.”

  “Kills more cops than gangbangers.”

  Pete nodded. “Our flight back to Iowa came through O’Hare. I talked Kay into us renting a car to drive home. I had something I had to do here, first.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Well . . . I’m doing it, Sarge.”

  The two men looked at each other, without expression, unless you noticed their eyes.

  “Ever think about them days, Mr. Maxwell?”

  For the first time today Sarge had lapsed into the colored street patois Pete had heard so often on the ship.

  “Sure. Then maybe, after a few years, a little less. But lately . . . little more, maybe. Can’t help it, you know, when

  those names turn up in the obits.”

  Sarge nodded. “It was hell.”

  Dolores seemed about to scold her husband for language, but she didn’t.

  Pete said, “Yeah, it was. But we looked out for each other.”

  Sarge chuckled. “Like that song you fellas sang—that Ink Spots tune. . . . ‘I’ll Get By . . . ’ ”

  Pete nodded.

  “Summed it up,” Sarge said. “Out of the whole damn war, that’s the one time I like to think about. How we all ate together, officers, enlisted, black, white. All just workin’ men that night. For some of those boys, that was the first night in their whole lives they got treated like real men. Fantail Four did that, you, Mr. Connor, Mr. Rosetti . . . yeah, even poor Mr. Driscoll.”

  Dick Driscoll . . . of all of them, the only one who remained young and vibrant, who had never had to suffer the indignities of aging. . . .

  “That cornet case,” Sarge said, “carryin’ it around ain’t your idea of exercise, is it?”

  Pete smiled faintly. “No. I played taps at Vince Rosetti’s funeral. Kinda thought it might come in handy here, too.”

  “Hell, I feel fine,” Sarge said.

  Dolores slapped his arm again. “Liss! . . . You folks have room for pie? I got apple, and sweet potato.”

  “Too full right now,” Pete said, and Kay agreed, adding, “But that does sound delicious.”

  “Well, can you stay and visit a while?” Dolores asked, getting up, starting to clear the table. “We can have coffee and

  pie a little later.”

  “Sure,” Kay said, “and let me help you with that. . . .”

  Sarge, Pete, and the two younger Washingtons helped clear the table, and then Sarge said, “Want to see where we make the magic?”

  In the garage, Sarge flipped the wall switch on four overhead bulbs. No cars were in the garage, just a drum kit, upright piano, stand-up bass, a few amps and assorted electric instruments, as well as a master sound board and microphones for recording. Sarge moved to the piano, young Peter to the bass, and Willie to the drums.

  Pete knelt and opened his cornet case, much as he had one distant night in a club called the Silver Slipper. As Sarge and his sons got settled behind their instruments, the two women came in and sat on folding chairs as if the four men were on stage.

  Pete put the mute in his cornet. He began to play Taps, getting odd looks from the younger Washingtons but a knowing smile from Sarge. The somber funereal tribute ended on C and Pete transformed that C into the first note of an equally mournful “I’ll Get By (As Long as I Have You).”

  Willie kicked in with a drum pick-up after the first phrase, and the bass and piano fell right in, the tempo immediately accelerating to a nice bounce. They stayed with the melody two times through, then Pete took a solo, a lively, fluid, quick-fingered jazz variation that didn’t entirely lose that nice melody, and Sarge followed with deft, perfectly chosen notes, little Basie-style tinkles that made Pete grin.

  They took it home pretty big, almost Dixieland-style, and Pete thought about the Bix Festival back in Iowa, wondering if maybe he could get the Washington Combo to come out and play (and let him sit in).

  Finally Pete landed, and they were doing a big finish when he turned the last C of “I’ll Get By” back into the first note of Taps and played one more tribute to the men of the USS Powderkeg.

  Then, after an hour or so of jamming, the musicians followed the two women into the house for coffee and pie—both apple and sweet potato. Room at the table for both.

  A TIP OF THE CAP

  On September 16, 1999, I sat down with my father—Max A. Collins, Sr.—to record his memories about life as a lieutenant (j.g.) in the U.S. Navy during World War II. The interview was lengthy and detailed. My father, who’d been suffering from lupus, died on February 23, 2000.

  I had heard snippets of Dad’s wartime experiences, and had decided perhaps as early as the 1980s that I would eventually base a book on his time as one of a handful of young white officers in charge of a large body of black sailors. My father had the usual prejudices of his ge
neration, and I heard him tell a racially oriented joke now and then; but I also know he was extremely proud of how well he got along with the black sailors, including his efforts to teach them English and see to it that they were not treated as second-class citizens in any way.

  Nonetheless, this is a work of fiction, and my father, unlike Pete Maxwell, was never involved in a murder inquiry. But his experiences in the Navy were significant—although the stateside Port Chicago disaster has been much written about, black sailors performing their dangerous work with munitions in the Pacific Theater has gone largely unrecorded.

  My father’s love and exceptional talent for music is reflected here, as well, though I must insist that he is not Pete Maxwell, and my mother (Patricia Collins) is not Kay, however much I may have plundered both their lives for details and color.

  The several-hour interview with my dad was transcribed by Stephanie Keenan; thank you, Steph, for the hard work as well as the lovely comments about what a classy guy my father had been in those war years.

  If my father deserves my biggest debt of thanks, my research associate, Matthew V. Clemens, comes in a close second. He helped flesh out the plot in brainstorming sessions, and put together a story treatment (incorporating his extensive research) from which I could work. Matt and I have co-written a dozen or so short stories (see our collection The Lolita Complex and Other Tales of Sex and Violence, published by Twilight Tales), and he has assisted me on numerous TV tie-in projects.

  Matt’s research efforts for this novel included a trip to Richmond, California, where he toured the Red Oak Victory and took hundreds of reference photos for our use. I wish to thank the Richmond Museum of History, owners of the real ship that serves as the setting for this book. The Red Oak Victory was originally constructed at Kaiser’s Richmond Shipyard #1 in 1944. Back home again, she serves as a floating museum and is slowly being restored to her original specs by volunteers (at a cost of three million dollars still in the process of being raised).

  We would also like to thank retired San Rafael police captain, Jerry Souza, who provided literature and diagrams and took Matthew to places in the ship that the general public never gets to see; Jeffrey Copeland, author of Inman’s War; George Allen, OSM USN Ret.; Mark Ziegler EMCM (SW) USN Ret.; and documentary filmmaker Elaine Holliman.