Shipyard Gals, page 15
Rachel bent down and picked up one of the forgotten bandages and wiped the blood off her hands.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry, Elena. You tried your best. But you were right. He must have been badly hurt. All the flying glass and wood when the dining hall collapsed. He was in shock. He’d already lost a lot of blood by the time you found him.”
Something bitter rose up in Elena’s throat and she stepped back. Her eyes burned. She should have been able to save him. Tears spilled down her face.
Rachel moved closer and put her arm around her, but Elena shook her off.
“Don’t,” she said, and looked at the two nurses. “Go do your jobs.” She took a deep breath. “Wait.” She bent down close to the sailor’s lifeless body. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was sleeping. Rachel must have done that for him. “Que Diós te bendiga, señor. May God bless you.”
She crossed herself, then picked up the notepad and walked away. She didn’t want to be comforted. Adrenaline still pumped inside her. If only she’d found him sooner, he might have lived. She felt as helpless as when they came to arrest Papá.
***
She got a ride home to Richmond and slept for a few hours. Gruesome images haunted her dreams. By the time she returned to the base later that morning, a crowd of reporters had gathered outside the entry gate. A truck stenciled with the US Army logo rolled past, an anti-tank gun mounted in the back. Had rumors of a Japanese attack been confirmed? Drizzle from heavy fog added to the gloom. She’d tried to talk to some of the other sailors last night, but no one had time for her, too busy helping the injured men and still reeling from the shock of the explosion.
A Navy officer at the gate addressed the reporters, his khaki uniform streaked with dirt, dark circles under his eyes. “Okay folks, we’re going to allow you inside,” he announced. “Let you see some of what’s happened. But you can’t go down to the waterfront.”
“Why not?” one of the reporters asked. He had a camera slung around his neck. His pass said he was from the Oakland Tribune. “What are you hiding?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to see that area,” the officer said. “We’re still cleaning up. We’ll have a brief press conference in thirty minutes. 0900 sharp. At the dining hall, or what’s left of it.”
Elena lined up at the gate with the others, each of them showing the officer their press pass. There was only one other woman in the group. She was tall and dressed in Army fatigues, her red hair pulled tight in a bun. Did the Army put out a newspaper? In El Salvador, that would never happen. There the soldiers operated more like a secret gang, using their power to intimidate citizens, especially those who spoke out.
When the officer got to Elena, he held her pass in his hands and squinted.
“What paper do you work for, miss?” he said. He looked like he hadn’t slept; probably no one on the base had. And he must have known many of the men who’d been injured or killed. He wouldn’t have heard of Papá’s small progressive paper, but she’d come up with her story on the bus ride, how she’d present herself if anyone questioned her credentials.
“Well, sir,” she said, “I’m a welder at Shipyard #3 in Richmond. I belong to the Boilermakers’ union. I’m going to write this up for the union newsletter.” That sounded better than saying she hoped to sell her story to La Voz de México, the local Spanish language newspaper. Grácias a Papá for teaching her how to worm her way in anywhere.
The officer nodded. “Go on, then,” he told her, and turned to the next reporter. Relieved, she followed the group past the gate and took out her notebook. She peered at the redheaded woman who nodded and studied Elena’s press pass.
“La Voz de la Gente. Never heard of it,” the woman said, stumbling over the Spanish. Her own pass said “US Army,” and underneath that, “WAC.” The other reporters had moved ahead, taking photos and scribbling in their notebooks. Things were much quieter than last night, no one shouting orders or screaming in pain, just a few generators thrumming. Bodies had been removed.
“My pass is a little old,” Elena said. “I worked in El Salvador for my father’s paper. Now I work at the shipyard. I’m writing this for the union newsletter.” Saying it again made it real. Of course the union would want to cover this. She’d go down to the union hall tomorrow after she’d written the article. Maybe they’d even pay her.
“Sure, I get it,” the woman said. “Like me. I’m writing an article for the weekly report we do at Camp Stoneman. I’m Betty, by the way.”
“I’m Elena. What’s WAC? Are you a soldier?”
“Stands for Women’s Army Corps. So yeah, I’m a soldier, but they don’t send us into combat. I work at the Army base.” Betty looked around. “We better catch up. Don’t want to miss the press conference.”
The first barracks they passed had nothing but shards of glass in its windows, the shades flapping, a piece of the roof torn off. The remains of another building that must have caught fire were now only a pile of rubble, with water-soaked ashes and the sharp smell of burnt wood.
Chunks of metal were strewn across the grounds, and a bloodied bandage had been left behind. The area where the doctors and nurses had cared for the wounded sailors stood empty, just a few tables left, with stretchers lying about. They must have worked all night to get the rest of the men triaged and transported to the hospital. Or the morgue. She shuddered, imagining all those bodies.
***
At 9:00 she walked to the dining hall. Half of it had been torn off from the blast, and inside she saw splintered tables, chairs scattered upside down, some piled high like a giant’s hand had tossed them. A few sailors stood around, holding plates of food someone must have delivered. None of them were eating. One man had his arm around another sailor who was bent over, crying. All of the men she saw were Negro. Were there no white enlisted men on this base?
Another officer stepped forward and faced the reporters.
“Hello. I’m Captain Nelson Goss,” he said. “These are the facts of what happened on our base last night. There were two ships docked down at the pier, the Quinault Victory and the E.A. Bryan. Both of them were completely destroyed. Everyone on those ships died instantly.” He paused, looking down. “The total number of men who were killed is 320.”
Elena gasped and covered her mouth. So many, worse than she’d imagined.
Captain Goss continued, grimacing. “Out of that, 202 were our sailors. The explosion injured another 390, mostly men in their barracks. The injured have been transported to Camp Stoneman’s hospital in Pittsburg for further care.”
“Do you know yet what caused the explosion?” a reporter asked.
“We don’t know,” Captain Goss said. “There are no survivors to give evidence of what happened.” Elena found it hard to understand him. What was he saying?
“Do you think it was an enemy attack?” Betty asked. Several of the reporters turned to look at her. Women writing serious articles for newspapers was unusual, even here. And Betty was in uniform, even more rare.
“At this point, we don’t know,” Captain Goss said. “There is some suspicion of sabotage. We will conduct a full investigation as to the cause of the explosions.”
“I have a question, sir.” A reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle spoke up, tipping his cap back. “Those ships were being loaded with all kinds of ammo, right? Bombs and bullets and God knows what else.” He pointed with his pencil toward the damaged dining hall. “So how dangerous was the work your men were doing? Did you have safety measures in place?”
Captain Goss glared at the reporter. “Of course. Our sailors had plenty of training. They died in service to our country.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “That’s all for now. We’ll provide further information as it becomes available.”
“What about getting us a list of the names?” Betty said. “The sailors who died.”
Elena was impressed. This redheaded reporter was persistent, not intimidated by anyone. Elena used to be more like that, even when pushing for the truth could land you in a Salvadoran jail cell on some trumped-up charge. Somehow she’d lost that nerve, like a muscle gone weak from lack of use. Ever since they’d arrested Papá.
The captain shook his head. “No list yet. Not until we’ve notified the families.” He started to walk away.
Elena took a deep breath, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Uh, one more question, sir.” She stepped forward. “All these sailors, the ones who died, and the injured men. How many of them were Negroes?” No one had said anything about the race of those who had died. That mattered.
Captain Goss cleared his throat. “Our entire crew here, all the enlisted men, are Negroes.”
He folded his arms. “Except for the officers. That’s all for now.” He glanced at Elena and turned, striding away from the group.
The other reporters stood still, writing notes, a few shaking their heads. She wasn’t the only one who realized how important this story had become. It was no longer just a horrible tragedy. Now it was also about race. Why were those Negro sailors the only ones assigned to load ammunition? Had they really received proper training? There was certainly more to the story, and she intended to uncover the rest.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 21
RUBY MAE
July 18, 1944
Ruby Mae paced outside the corner market on MacDonald Avenue, waiting for the morning newspaper delivery, Peggy fretting close by.
“I’m real worried about Freddy,” Ruby Mae said, shivering in the cold air. “He might be hurt from that earthquake.” Last night when she’d tried to catch a ride up to Port Chicago, the sailors had warned her to go home; no one would let her inside the gates. So she’d gone home with Peggy, and slept poorly, imagining the worst. Momma and Daddy and the twins had waited up for them. Momma had announced that it was time for the family to go back to Baton Rouge; she believed the earthquake was a sign from God.
On the street in front of them a truck pulled up and delivered a thick stack of newspapers. The shopkeeper piled them onto the display racks. Peggy saw it first. “Oh my God, look!”
The front-page headline stopped Ruby Mae’s heart.
“300 Die in Bay Arms Ship Blast!”
The second headline read, “Port Chicago Razed by Two-Ship Explosion!”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, no,” she said, grabbing a newspaper off the rack, almost dropping the groceries in her hands before Peggy snatched the bag. Tears filled her eyes. The article described a gruesome scene. So many sailors dead. Others seriously wounded. Burned or injured by flying debris. Her lungs fought for air.
“I knew it,” she said. “I have to go look for him.” The names of the dead and injured men were not listed. Her hands shook as she clutched the newspaper against her chest.
Even if Freddy was okay, he had no way to reach her. No phone in the trailer. She had to get to the base, and she needed Peggy’s help. Momma would never allow her to go. Not after she’d been caught sneaking back to church. Chasing after a boy like this. Momma had called her a khaki wacky, something she’d heard at church, warning parents to keep a close eye on their daughters, with all those soldiers and sailors out on leave.
“If you want me to go by myself, that’s fine,” Ruby Mae said. “But Momma’d be mad at you for making me do this alone.” Not that she planned to tell Momma.
She hoped Peggy would take the bait. When they were little, way before the twins came along, Peggy liked to dress Ruby Mae up and strut about, pushing the baby carriage, her heels bouncing out of Momma’s church shoes as she clomped through their small house.
“Now, Ruby Mae, you be a good girl,” Peggy’d say in a fake-adult voice, “and Momma’s gonna buy you some candy. Too bad you ain’t as pretty as your big sister.” Ruby Mae had loved being fussed over and ignored the sisterly insults.
But now Peggy pushed back. “They prob’ly won’t let you see him anyway. It’s not like you’re married. You don’t even know if he got hurt, or where he is.”
Ruby Mae wiped her eyes. “Please.”
“Look,” Peggy said, pointing, “they got a pay phone here. You got his number, right? Call him. I’ll go pay for the paper.”
Ruby Mae stepped into the phone booth, pulling loose change and the slip of paper with Freddy’s number from her purse. But once she’d dialed, she only heard a busy signal. Over and over and over. Peggy came out of the market.
“I can’t get through,” Ruby Mae said. “You gotta help me.”
Peggy looked at her and sighed. “All right. Lord help me, I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things. You got a bit of the Devil in you.”
“Maybe I do.”
When they got back to the trailer, Daddy was up, making himself some breakfast. He leaned on his cane as he bent over the electric hot plate, stirring some grits in the fry pan. He’d been off work since his leg injury. Two weeks in the hospital after his surgery, and now he’d hobbled around the trailer for weeks, miserable and ornery over every little thing. The earthquake had been the final straw.
“There you are,” he said. He eyed the grocery bag. “What’d you bring your old man?”
“We got you some eggs and bread, Daddy,” Peggy said, and kissed his stubbled cheek, putting the bag on the kitchen table. The smell of heated lard overwhelmed the small space. Ruby Mae cracked the door open.
“If you want, I’ll scramble you an egg to go with those grits,” she said. “Then me and Peggy got some shopping to do. We need new coveralls.” She looked around the trailer. “Where’d Momma go?”
Daddy shook his head. “I can cook my own damn egg.” He reached into the bag and pulled out the carton. “I ain’t no cripple. Your momma’s gone with some ladies from church. Working on a quilt or some other damn thing. I don’t know.” He sighed. “Sorry for the foul language. Lord help me, I ain’t cut out to be idle like this. You girls go do your shopping. I ain’t fit for company right now.” He leaned his cane on the table, took an egg, and cracked it open onto the grits and watched it cook.
Ruby Mae stepped close to him and hugged his broad back, her short arms not reaching around his belly. Being off work for so long had broken his spirit. He needed something to do until he could go back to work. Otherwise he and Momma would start packing up.
By the time the bus dropped her and Peggy off at the Port Chicago gate, it was nearly noon. Everyone on the bus had talked about the explosion, worried about what they’d find at the base. A crowd of reporters had gathered in front of the sailors guarding the entrance. Two green Army Jeeps exited the base; the drivers Ruby Mae saw through the windshields looked like they’d been through hell. An ambulance drove slowly out of the gate, its siren silent.
“I don’t think they’re letting people inside,” Peggy said, walking toward the gate. “Looks like some families came looking for their kin. They probably don’t got phones at home neither.” She linked arms with her sister.
“C’mon, let’s go talk to that guard,” Ruby Mae said.
When they approached the sailor, he was talking to one of the women with young kids who’d been on the bus. The boy and girl looked about the same age as the twins. The sailor held a stack of papers on a clipboard, and thumbed through the pile.
“Here he is, ma’am,” he told the woman. “Looks like he’s been sent to Camp Stoneman. They got a hospital there.”
“Oh my God. What happened to him?” The woman pulled her children close.
“Sorry, ma’am, that’s all I can tell you,” the sailor said, frowning. “The hospital will help you. Take the bus to Pittsburg. Tell the driver where you’re headed.”
The woman stood for a minute, wild-eyed. She grabbed her children’s hands and led them back towards the bus stop. The little girl dragged a worn teddy bear by one arm behind her.
The sailor wiped his forehead and looked at Ruby Mae and Peggy. “Can I help you ladies?”
Peggy squeezed her arm. “Ask him.”
“Yes, sir, I . . . uh,” Ruby Mae practically whispered, afraid to jinx things. “I’m looking for Freddy Parker.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You ain’t his wife. ’Cause he ain’t got one.”
Peggy pursed her lips. “Naw, but she’s sweet on him.”
“You hush, Peggy,” Ruby Mae said under her breath. Please let him be okay.
“Look, I’m sorry,” the sailor said. “It’s been a rough morning, giving out so much bad news. My brain is soft as mush.” He smiled. “You must be Ruby Mae.”
She caught her breath. “You know Freddy?”
“Sure,” he said. “We in the same barracks. I was lucky, bunk at the other end, away from the windows. I got thrown out the bunk and banged up, but thank God that’s all.” He touched a spot on his forehead where a knot had formed. “He told me about you.” He looked at his list. “Well, you ain’t family, but I reckon I can tell you, since he ain’t got no family out here.”
“What happened to him?” she asked, still barely breathing. Her head felt like it might spin off, like a loose balloon.
“Freddy’s tough,” the sailor said. “I swear that guy should be dead by now. But he’s gonna make it. They sent him over to the Navy hospital in Vallejo. For surgery.”
She braced her weight against Peggy, suddenly lightheaded. “Just tell me what happened,” she said, pulling some air into her lungs.
“Well, he sleeps right next to the window,” he said, “so when things blew up, he got hit. It was glass and wood that cut him up. One piece got him bad in the neck; the other one got his eye.” Ruby Mae’s stomach lurched. “He was one bloody mess. They gonna have to fix him up at the hospital. He’ll be good as new, least I hope so. That’s what the doc here said ’fore they took him away.”
