King of Valley Junction
Chapter 8
Controlling the Narrative
Lt. Tony Fratello walked out of the Third and Townsend train depot in downtown San Francisco and found himself in a swarm of servicemen and civilians. He was wearing his dress blue uniform like many of the Navy sailors scattered in and around the train station. It was after lunch, and he had still not eaten. The weather was cool but comfortable, as California always seemed to be. He thought it would be best to check in to his new command and unload his luggage. He had been carrying his sea bag and garment bag since his discharge from the language school in Monterey. He had plenty of time to think on the train ride between the two cities. He was disappointed he was being assigned a desk job with the OSS instead of a clandestine role overseas. The good news was the desk jockeys were not going to be killed in action. The names of the guys in training faded like their smiles just days after separating for different duties. The new assignment also meant he probably would not be on a ship. There was a substantial amount of intelligence and message traffic going back and forth within the department, and Fratello assumed he would be working in some administrative capacity, a cog in the proverbial wheel.
His orders read his new command was Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California. Based on the information posted on the billboard building near the ticket booth, he needed to catch a ferry to his destination. Fratello picked up his bags and headed towards a row of taxis waiting for fares. San Francisco was a large city lying, and most of it appeared to be lying to the north upon first glance. Fratello joined the line of people waiting their turn, and after a few fares in front of him were taken, his turn arrived.
“Where are you headed, officer?”
“Mare Island Naval Shipyard is the final destination. I need to get to the ferry terminal first to catch the ferry.”
“No problem, sailor. Jump in,” the cabbie replied.
Fratello opened the rear door, threw in his bags, and sat down beside them in the back seat. “You just getting into town?”
“San Francisco, yes.” Fratello replied as the cabbie pulled the lever on the meter, beginning the fare.
“Where are you from?” he asked as he checked his mirror.
“I am from Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Oh, that is where John Wayne, the big Hollywood actor, is from. President Hoover was from there as well. He was the worst one we ever had, though. Well, good on you anyways, lieutenant. We’re all mighty proud of you boys fighting,” the cabbie said as he lit up a cigarette. “I am too old, or I would have signed up myself,” he replied as he pulled the cab onto Bay Shore Boulevard.
“America needs good cab drivers too.”
“You can say that again. Some of these guys are driving cabs these days. They are not even from America. I think some of them are living in their damn cabs. You gotta watch out when you’re getting in one. In Oakland, they got negroes now driving stolen cabs, I heard,” the cabbie said as he honked his horn at the car in front of him, stopping to let out a passenger.
“Is that a fact?” Fratello was aware the Navy was segregated, but he had not heard of blacks not being able to drive in a major city, stolen cab or not.
“I don’t know. I just heard it. They stay on the other side of the Bay Bridge in Oakland.”
Fratello was still not getting an answer to his question. “Why don’t the negroes come over the bridge?”
The cabbie laughed, “There are some. But most of them are too broke, can’t read, can’t swim, and have no license to drive. So, they are kind of stuck over there. The Port Chicago explosion last summer didn’t help their cause.”
“I read about that. That happened here? I thought that was in Chicago? I remember a bunch of guys got killed, right?” Fratello vaguely remembered the incident.
“No, Port Chicago was the name of that ammo pier and base here in the Bay Area. It was in Suisun Bay up north by Mare Island, actually. But, yeah, hundreds of them died. Hundreds of them wounded too. There were some whites killed too, but mostly negroes.”
“That must have been a huge blast,” Fratello thought out loud.
“It was. I heard it. Everyone in the Bay heard it. It was terrifying. We thought we were under attack like Pearl Harbor for a while. But there was nothing left of it the next morning, or not much. A couple of ships blew up at the pier. The entire pier itself is gone. The ships too. Most of the barracks area where they were living is gone. Anyone on the pier or in the area was killed instantly. Anyone within 1/4 mile probably didn’t make it either from the shrapnel.”
“That sounds terrible,” Fratello responded as he imagined being hit by a burning hunk of steel flying faster than an airplane.
“Wow, never would have happened either if we would have kept them out of the Navy. They just aren’t smart enough to do the jobs in the first place. Half of them can’t even read.”
“Negroes?”
“Yeah, somebody put those guys in charge of loading the bombs on ships? C’mon, who are they fooling? What did they think was going to happen?”
“I didn’t catch the majority of casualties were negroes.”
“You would never know about it either if it were not for The Barnacle breaking the story. The Navy doesn’t want any information getting out on it they don’t approve of. The segregation in the Navy was working pretty good until that happened. They got their classified intelligence and secrets, and stuff….” The cabbie paused to take a drag off his cigarette. “But, loading bombs from a train to a ship on the other side of the pier ain’t real classified. I mean most stevedores are not hired for their brains. No, they know. It was the white officers in charge that were running it loose on that pier if you know what I mean.”
“No, not really. What were they doing?” Fratello was mildly curious. The cabbie seemed odd and motivated by his political opinion. He suspected most passengers endured the same regimen of him reciting his take on the morning’s headlines in between rides. He probably didn’t get a lot of tips, Fratello figured.
“Holy smokes, what were they not doing? I dropped a few of ‘ em off there during the day a couple times. If they were not in uniform I would not have even picked ‘ em up. If it was after dark I still wouldn’t pick ‘ em up, even in uniform, sir.”
“Port Chicago was a Navy base?”
“Yes and no. It was a Navy magazine, or ammunition depot, but there was a checkpoint and armed guard station at the front. Those barracks were just over the tracks and it was their little Africa, I guess.” It was clear from his tone the cab driver did not like negroes in general.
“They were all negroes that worked there and died?” asked Fratello.
“No, that is the thing. The white guys that were supposedly killed there were not assigned to Port Chicago. Somehow, the white officers in charge of the magazine all lived. I think it is because they were not even there. It was more of a loading pier than a base. They were loading ammo on the ships that pulled in. It was quite the operation with the ammunition coming in on trains with the tracks right down to the pier. It was right past the Carquinez Bridge. Hard to believe all of it is gone now. But, yeah, they had goons driving past the front gates with trunks full of liquor and drugs right down to the barracks on pay days. It was all niggers. A buddy of mine said he dropped a couple of ‘ em off about a week before the explosion. He said he saw a bus full of negro women getting waved on to the base with no license plates on it too. During a war?”
“Yeah, that is asking for trouble. There are no promotions coming out of an operation being run like that.”
“You are correct, sir. That is the real story too, accountability. How is it the white officers in charge have already been retired or discharged? All of them? The Navy is trying to pin it on the negroes too. They got a bunch of ‘ em in the brig up there on Mare Island actually. There is a bunch up in that hospital too. At least I think they were.” The cabbie was talking to himself at this point.
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, it is. The whole Bay Area is full of interesting stories.”
“Where is the Golden Gate Bridge from here?” asked Fratello changing the subject but seeing nothing out the window except buildings and traffic.
“That is on the north side, the other side of the city. The ferry terminal, where you are going, is on the east side up here. You guys in uniform can ride on the ferries for free. That goes for buses in the city too, at least San Francisco,” the cabbie offered a tip.
“That is good to know, thanks.”
“You could actually get a free bus ride from the city all the way to Mare Island if you wanted. It would take a few connections. I wouldn’t recommend it. The ferry is faster and offers a better view anyways.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Hopefully, it is over soon enough, sir,” the cabbie replied, referring to the war as he threw his cigarette out the window and slowed the car to a stop in front of the ferry terminal.
“Me too, pal.”
“Here is the terminal, sir.”
“What do I owe ya?”
“$1.70, lieutenant,” the cabbie read the fare meter mounted on the dash of the cab.
“Here is $2. Keep the change,” offered Fratello. He grabbed his bags and exited the vehicle.
Fratello made his way towards the busy ferry terminal. He spotted a ferry schedule on a billboard and noted a departure time for Mare Island in fifteen minutes if he could find the correct mooring. Several ships and ferries were moored around the congested ferry terminal. The boats and ships were squeezed into their slips and berths like sardines with just enough open space for arrivals and departures without crashing into each other. He spotted the correct ferry and was fortunate to get a seat onboard moments before the lines were cast off. There were approximately thirty people on the ferry, Fratello estimated. It was a mix of civilians and servicemen, men and women. He found an empty seat next to a man in a trench coat reading a book. The older man looked up to acknowledge the young officer’s presence and then refocused on his literature. The ferry’s pilot’s voice came over a small speaker in the ferry’s cabin. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome aboard Golden Gate Ferry. This ferry services Treasure Island, Oakland Naval Station, Mare Island Naval Station, Larkspur Landing, and the San Francisco Ferry Terminal only. There is no smoking aboard this craft at any time. In the event of a water emergency, there are life vests located under the fore deck. If you would like to wear a flotation device while we are underway, please return it to the bin prior to your departure. Please remain seated while we are underway. Thank you.”
Fratello smiled and felt nervous. It was the first time he had literally been aboard a watercraft on the ocean, and he was a naval officer. If the vessel crashed into something and he was pressed into action, he would be lucky to start the engine and turn on the lights. The vessel plowed through the water with ease, as the heavy rumble of the engine was just loud enough for conversation to be difficult. He looked out the portal, and the San Francisco Bay was indeed busy with every kind of ship imaginable pulling in or out. On the starboard side of the ship, he could see the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island, and the ferry headed directly at it.
Fratello saw a newspaper lying folded on the floor at his feet. He reached down and picked it for something to read. He noticed the name “ The Barnacle” at the top of the paper and connected the dots with the cab driver’s comments. It was the local newspaper. The headlines read “Kamikazes Strike!” The story went on to detail four American ships being damaged and one sunk in the Lingayen Gulf in the northwestern region of the Philippine Islands. He looked out a nearby portal at the ships on the water, estimating how long he would last in the cold San Francisco Bay water if the ferry suddenly went down. He looked around for the floatation devices mentioned by the pilot and noticed a few stuffed in a bin in the fore of the vessel. It was not hard to imagine the vessel striking something and the floatation devices being trapped from access from a damaged bow. He should have put on a vest. No one was stopping him. No one else seemed concerned, so he opted not to. It would look cowardly, not intelligent, because he would be the only one wearing one on the civilian craft. He would look foolish, and he remained in his seat. The odds were slim there would be an accident, he assumed. There was no one paying attention to him anyways, and the other passengers were either reading or talking loud enough to carry on a conversation above the din of the engine.
Fratello looked back down the newspaper and noticed an additional article headlined “Port Chicago to be Decommissioned!” The article, undoubtedly read by the cabbie, detailed the graphic explosion and surprisingly verified the cabbie’s story. The article referred to an ongoing investigation but failed to mention any details that could point to Navy mismanagement or negligence in the matter. Instead, the article switched focus and stated the racial integration of the military itself needed to be brought into question. It went on to claim half the negroes in the military were illiterate when accepted into the ranks and most were banned from front-line duty before the explosion. The devastating explosion itself was the biggest loss of life in the continental United States during the war. America, especially those living in the San Francisco Bay, wanted answers. The article pointed out the Navy’s decision to demolish the base would obviously destroy potential evidence for any outside investigators attempting to piece together a subsequent investigation of their own. Three hundred dead and three hundred casualties was a massive event. If they were demolishing the base and the command structure had already been dissolved, those would be the obvious first two steps taken if the Navy were actually trying to hide something. Fratello tried to imagine President Roosevelt reading the same article. Careers would be ended over the event, even if the Allies won the war.
The short run to Treasure Island lasted fifteen minutes as the boat plowed through the waves. At Treasure Island, half the passengers got off the vessel. They were replaced by an equal number of new faces, then the ferry pulled back out. Bill noticed the insignia of a commander on the collar of another officer approaching him in the mix. Lieutenant Fratello saluted the smaller, thinner officer in his mid-forties, he estimated upon first glance.
“Hell of a war. Where are you headed, son?”
“Mare Island, sir,” replied Fratello.
“I am too. You get orders to a ship or shore?” The commander noticed the seabag and garment bag.
“I am reporting to the BOQ, sir. I am just checking in.”
“It is a good duty station. It is a good offices club too. I am an orthopedic specialist. I am up at the hospital once a month. What department do they have you in?”
“Public Affairs Office, sir.”
“Unless the Japs bomb us in San Francisco, I think you’ll make it safely back home.”
“I am hoping so, sir.”
“The tide is turning on both fronts. Where are you from?"
“Des Moines, Iowa, sir.”
“A farm boy.”
“Not really, more like pizza and used cars.”
The commander laughed at the response.“Don’t you guys grow all the potatoes?”
“No, corn and beans mostly, sir.”
“That is Idaho, maybe. A pizza sounds great right about now.”
The young lieutenant smiled. “Always.”
“I should have gotten into pizza instead of medicine,” the commander shook his head and sighed.
“Were you a doctor before the war?” asked Fratello.
“Yes, back in Michigan. That was mostly general practice after my internship. The Navy put me through surgical school long after I had decided not to. The needs of the damn government.”
“That is still a very admirable skill, sir.”
The commander ignored the compliment. “There are so many lives that will never be the same when it is finally over. So many that won’t even be coming home. The morgue at the hospital acts more like the post office for the Pacific fleet."
“I bet you have seen some pretty graphic stuff, sir.”
“Yes, I have. I work with amputees, and they have all suffered tremendously by losing limbs. It is tough on them psychologically too. We try to get them functioning again with the use of prosthetics at the hospitals.”
“It sounds like important work.”
“It definitely gets busy,” confessed the commander, pointing to his leather briefcase in his lap.
“Is Mare Island a base or a shipyard?”
“It is a weird arrangement. Half of the island is the shipyard, and the other half is the base. There is really nothing separating the two once you cross the bridge over the river. The maintenance shops along the water and the dry docks are all restricted areas, but it’s crawling with civilians. Probably 10-1 civilians to sailors.”
“That is a lot of civilians.”
“The ships and submarines that pull in are being refitted and maintenance-type stuff. They originally built the shipyard years ago like its own town on the other side of Vallejo, before the first war. It had its own hospital. That got destroyed years ago, and they rebuilt the current facility with about 500 beds.”
Fratello tried to imagine how big Des Moines General Hospital was back home in comparison. “Wow, that sounds big.”
“It is relative. Right now, it is an overflow and orthopedic wing mostly. Most of the men were being brought to Letterman Army Hospital on the Presidio, over on the other side of the bay here to the port side. It is just south of the Golden Gate Bridge over there. Now that is a busy place.” He gestured out the portal far off in the distance. He continued, “The Navy opened up Oakland Naval Hospital a couple of years ago, so wounded Marines and Navy now are transferred there first. It is where I spend the majority of my time operating. Most of the surgeries and amputations take place there. I go back and forth between the hospitals. Mare Island is still dealing with a lot of the negroes from the Port Chicago blast last summer.”
“I was just reading that in this paper.” He didn’t mention the cab driver’s confession.
“What a mess.” The doctor shook his head. “We will be going right past it on the starboard side pretty soon, or what is left of it.”
“The article said there were hundreds killed and wounded?”
The commander nodded his head, concurring, “There were. I worked on many of them myself. Some terrible injuries those men suffered. They should have never been down there unsupervised in the first place.”
“The article said there was some local controversy.”
“Some? That is one way of saying it.” The commander smirked and opened the briefcase he had with him. He removed a few manila folders from the briefcase and then some patient records from one of the envelopes. “Forgive me, I need to review a few notes for the patient’s records before we arrive.”
“Of course, sir.”
Fratello looked back down at The Barnacle he was still holding. The ferry headed north towards Mare Island on the next leg of its route. Through a port-side portal, he could see the Golden Gate Bridge off in the distance. Behind it was the open Pacific. He smiled. It was indeed a picturesque view from within the cabin of the ferry looking west. He thought about his dad and Mickey back in Des Moines. They would love to see the view from the ferry too. It was probably freezing cold in Iowa. He wasn’t sure what the temperature was, but California always seemed to stay between 50-75 degrees no matter what the month. The palm and palmetto trees scattered across the towns and valleys just didn’t grow in Iowa. There were several ships visible out on the water the size of the biggest buildings in Des Moines. He thought about a pizza and felt a hunger pang in his stomach. A slice of one of Mickey and Pop’s Windy City Neapolitan masterpieces would hit the spot, he thought to himself. Thinking about home made him want the war to be over, but for him, it was just beginning.
The ferry pulled into San Pablo Bay and eventually up the mouth of the Napa River into the Mare Island Strait separating the town of Vallejo from the shipyard. The commander organized his records in his briefcase and exited the small craft first when it pulled into the ferry landing in Vallejo. Fratello, carrying his two bags, waited until it cleared out before being the last of the departing passengers to go ashore. When he exited the ferry, he noticed the large blue cantilever bridge spanning the river to the north. The invention allowed the deck of the bridge to raise and lower multiple times a day so ships could pass underneath. There were no bridges like that in Iowa. The shipyard itself across the strait appeared to be a compilation of dry docks and maintenance shops for the many ships at anchor or tied up along the quay. The shipyard appeared busy with the activity of both civilians and men in uniform moving about on both sides of the river. The landing on the Vallejo side of the river was little more than a ticket booth, a newspaper stand with some small conveniences, and a phone booth. The parking lot had a few cabs waiting for arrivals, and Fratello noticed the commander getting in one. He followed and jumped in a subsequent cab while the others walked towards a couple of different buses waiting.
“Can you get me on the base?” Fratello asked through the window of the cab.
“I sure can, sir. Jump in,” the man replied and switched the lever on the fare meter in his car. Fratello opened the door, placed his bags in the back seat, and sat down next to his luggage in the back seat.
“Where are you headed?”
“The Bachelor Officers Quarters.”
“No problem. You just checking in or shipping out, sir?”
“Just checking in.”
“You look pretty young, sir. How long have you been in the Navy?” the cabbie said as he looked in his rearview mirror. Fratello assumed they were about the same age.
“Since 43. How long have you been driving a cab?” asked Fratello.
“Since I left high school, I would have signed up, but I had a touch of polio when I was a kid, so the draft board wouldn’t take me,” the cabbie replied as he drove towards the front gate of the shipyard.
“At least you won’t be coming home in a pine box like many guys our age.”
“What do you do in the Navy, sir?”
“Public Affairs.”
“Is that a desk job or something?” The cab driver had never heard of the position.
“Yeah, that’s one way of saying it.” Fratello wasn’t even sure what his job would entail himself.
“So, you will be right in there with the nurses and the waves, nice. There are some real lookers in the hospital. White girls and black girls too.”
“Oh, yeah?” Fratello’s interest perked up.
“Yeah, I see ‘ em all the time. Black nurses work on the black patients, and the white nurses on the white guys. They’re everywhere. A couple of the teachers are knockouts too. Just yesterday, I had this brunette girl with blue eyes and huge bongos in the uniform as a passenger, a real looker if you know what I mean,” he leaked his unfiltered confession without even looking in the rearview mirror to see if Lieutenant Fratello reacted to the remark. He pulled the cab up to the front gate and stopped beside the gate guard. “I got an officer with me,” he rolled down the window. “Show him your identification card, sir.”
“Where are you headed, sir?” the gate guard asked.
“The BOQ.” Fratello flashed his military identification card he had withdrawn from his wallet.
“Roger. Welcome aboard. Permission is granted.” The gate guard saluted Fratello in the back of the cab, and the restrictive barrier arm was raised, allowing the cab access to the bridge going over the river.
“There is a lot of traffic on this base. Everyone has to use this entrance?” asked Fratello.
“No, there is one more to the north that connects with Highway 37 going east and west.”
“How long is traffic stopped when the bridge is up?”
“It depends on the size of the ship. Sometimes a few go through following each other, so it takes a bit longer. People just drive around and use the other entrance instead of waiting.”
“You mentioned teachers. Is there a school on the shipyard?”
“Yes, the Navy has one for the kids of the officers who live on the shipyard. It is over by the officers’ housing. There is also the School for the Stupid up here on the left.”
Fratello laughed at the remark. “What is the School for the Stupid?”
“I don’t know what the real name of it is. But they are teaching guys to read, write, and do basic math, I think. White guys and negroes too. Same situation, the whites teach the whites, and the negroes teach the negroes. If they are too dumb to read and write, the Navy can’t use them, and they kick them out. I guess all the low-skilled jobs out at sea are probably already filled. The Marines don’t want the dummies, so I guess they enroll them here in Stupid School as a last-ditch effort to keep them on active duty.”
“I have never heard of such a program.”
“I don’t know, actually, but the school. It is right behind the officers’ quarters, so you will see them yourself roaming around on the base in their dungarees,” the cabbie replied as he drove over the bridge, then turned left.
“I will keep my eyes open for the dummies in dungarees,” Fratello smiled and promised the cabbie.
“Trust me, no offense, sir, but there are some guys way too stupid to be in the Navy. You should see some of the characters I get as passengers.”
“Some colorful ones, eh?”
“Colorful? Good luck with the reading and writing lessons. The negroes? They’re lucky to take a shower and dress themselves. If they are not in uniform, I won’t even pick them up. They stink up my cab. The dumb white boys? They are mostly hillbillies from the South. They get blasted drunk out in town, then beat up out by civilians off base about once a week.”
“They give them liberty? They’re not on restriction?”
“No, not at all. Why they don’t have the Stupid Schoolers on lockdown I don’t know. The brig on the other end of the island seems to work just like any other jail; prisoners are kept on the inside. But those jokers? They’re learning the alphabet and teaching them how to read the funny papers. Some can count with their fingers. I have seen them doing it. But to let them off the base at 1600 for the rest of the day when we have boys fighting?”
“That does seem a bit odd.”
“You’ll see yourself. They’re never standing watch, never on post at the gate, always out front of the chow hall smoking, and somehow they get liberty off the base on the weekends? During wartime? It just doesn’t make sense, sir. Anyways, here is the BOQ.” He slowed the cab at the entrance to the officers’ quarters.
“That all sounds pretty strange indeed. Thanks for sharing it.” Fratello collected his bags and opened the rear door under the navy blue canopy that read Mare Island Naval Shipyard Bachelors Officers Quarters.
“That will be sixty cents, sir.”
Fratello fished a single from his wallet. “Here is $1. Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you need help with your bags?”
“No. I got it from here,” replied Lieutenant Anthony Fratello, reporting to his first non-training command. He adjusted his cap, closed the door, and the cab pulled slowly away from the curb. He turned towards the entrance and walked beneath the navy blue canopy to the front doors of the BOQ.