2 The Night Before
Tuesday evening , April 15th, 1947
(7:47 PM, 13 hours, 25 minutes before the first explosion )

Marc Villanuve leaned against the Grandcamp’s rail, his arms resting on a hand towel he
had draped over it. Watching the sun sink behind the warehouses on the pier, he felt that his soul
was more at peace than he could ever remember it being. He was going home.
The busy docks were now quiet. The only sounds were those of the ubiquitous seagulls
seeking one last morsel of food before the long night, and of the oily water that gently slapped
against the ship’s pitted, barnacled hull. Just two hours earlier the raucous cacophony of
commerce had filled the air. The huffing and chugging steam locomotives, as they shuttled
strings of banging rail cars, competed with the exhaust roar of cranes, straining against the loads
they were lifting off of the trains, or out of the warehouses and into the waiting ships. The
exclamations and curses of the stevedores who loaded and unloaded these cranes could be heard
between the whistles of ships departing, and of those ships coming in. The crunch of tires
crushing the shell paved road assailed the ears with a steady noise, as trucks and cars entered and
left the complex.
Now there was a new sound in the evening calm. The scrape of a lighter’s wheel against
flint, as the Frenchman lit the cigarette he had just put between his lips. Drawing in a lungful of
smoke, he sighed as he exhaled it. Marc realized that the sense of peace he was now feeling
would be fleeting. It was his nature. His troubles were of his own making. Another would blame
circumstances as the cause of his discontent, but Marc knew his discontent was the cause of his
circumstances. His quest for adventure would once again override his good sense.
It was two years now that the War was over for Marc. He should be settled in with
Claudine, perhaps with a baby in his lap. Instead, Marc chose to come to America, to visit the
land who came to his country’s aid. Marc knew that with the rising tensions between the East and
the West, and with a new cloud of evil rising over Eastern Europe, this just may have been the
only opportunity he would have in his lifetime to see this country for himself. He did not
consider what he was asking of Claudine.
The previous decade had not been an easy one for Marc. Ten years earlier the clouds of
war cast shadows over his childhood. When the war did come crashing into his country, Marc
was just a gangly pre-teen. His youth served him well in his fight against the hated Bosch. Few
Germans ever imagined that this awkward kid could be a lethal fighter in the Resistance. Marc
grew up quickly, he had no choice.
When the war finally ended, Marc felt he was owed something. Perhaps this adventure
he’s been on during the previous year was his reward. Now the adventure was over and he was
anxious to go home.
The previous Friday he had come to these docks looking for a ride to France . This ship’s
Captain not only granted his wish, but he also gave him a job. They were scheduled to leave
tomorrow and to make only one more stop before going on to Marseilles. Marc would not only
be home by Bastille Day in July, he would bring a pocketful of Francs with him.
As the sun dipped below the roofline of the warehouse, it cast a shadow over the ruststreaked
Liberty ship that Marc was on. Rectangles of fresh, black enamel, with white script
reading Grandcamp, adorned each side of the decrepit merchantman’s prow, as well as the stern.
Four years earlier, when this vessel was launched, it had been christened the Benjamin R. Curtis,
a name that now hid under these rectangles. Superstitious sailors often speak among themselves
about how changing the name of a ship is bad luck. In the case of this ill-fated freighter, this
superstition would prove to be well founded.
The Grandcamp had been a gift from the United States to the government of France.
Marc knew that America was now spending its mighty economic prowess trying to undo what
nearly a decade of war had done to Europe. Tightly packed in this cargo carrier’s hull were
thousands of tons of fertilizer, also a gift from the United States. This fertilizer was desperately
needed to restore the bounty of France’s farms, and to keep Europe from starving.
The previous Sunday Marc had explored this vast terminal on foot. He’d wandered
among the metal and wooden buildings, with railroad tracks snaking around and through them.
He’d marveled at the dozens of steam locomotives and smaller steam tugs sitting silent in the
rail-yard. Yesterday morning they woke with loud hisses, whistles and shrieks, shuttling long
strings of boxcars to and from this terminal. Marc’s first two days in his new job had him with a
crew that was loading cargo into the Grandcamp’s holds. They stacked pallets of 100 pound bags
labeled “Fertilizer,” with Ammonium Nitrate in a smaller script below, deep into the holds.
Next to the huge compound where the Grandcamp was docked was the world’s largest
petrochemical refining complex. This is where the precious oil that would be needed to power
Europe’s war torn industries was refined and stored. These petroleum products were badly
needed in France and the rest of Europe.
There were dozens upon dozens of huge storage tanks, with pipes connecting them to the
dock where the oil tankers berthed. Around and among these repositories were the spires and
cracking towers of the refineries, each pointing their metal fingers to the sky. Some of the towers
had natural gas fires burning at their tip, piercing the encroaching darkness with a translucent
blue flame.
Behind Marc, on the starboard side of the Grandcamp, was yet another terminal, one with
an enormous sky crane that could lift entire boxcars and set them into the holds of waiting ships.
Inside this yard was the Monsanto Chemical Company. Marc was told that this had once been a
large sugar processing plant. It was now a factory producing the ingredients needed to
manufacture synthetic rubber, as well as a number of other new man-made wonder materials
such as plastic and nylon.
Apparently America was gearing up for a new war with the Communists. All of this
wealth that was being shipped to Europe was to be a part of a new, cold conflict. As Marc
understood it, America feared famine in Europe. Should Europe starve, it would certainly
become Communist. The economic might of this great nation was now aimed at keeping this
from happening.
Marc smiled as he flicked his cigarette into the bay, and thought about how he would
miss this good American tobacco when he was once again in France. One thing he wouldn’t miss
though, were these ubiquitous seagulls that made every surface something that should be closely
examined before touching. They were worse even than the flocks of pigeons in Paris, birds that
spent their day defiling the statues and forcing young lovers there to embrace and kiss in the
open, instead of in the cool shade of the resplendent trees.
Marc lifted the towel off of the rail he had been leaning on, and carefully folded it so that
he could use it once again. He felt he had spent enough time basking in the gloaming of the day’s
end. He was anxious to get off of the ship and away from the dock area, so that he could enjoy
his last evening in this strange land. Pausing to light another cigarette, the Frenchman reached
the gangplank in only a few paces and strode down it to the wooden deck of the pier.
In a crescent, at the edge of the industrial area, lay the neighborhoods called the Bottom
and El Barrio. It was almost as though they were there to insulate Texas City from the port.
These neighborhoods were home to the Black and Hispanic workers who toiled on the docks,
eking out the best life they could for their families.
It was into this neighborhood of shacks and ramshackle houses that Marc strolled,
heading toward the business district and White community of Texas City. As Marc passed the
Come On Inn, a bar and pool hall at the very edge of the industrial complex, he spotted Bones
Jones, an African laborer with whom he had worked all day. Marc chuckled to himself as he
remembered the first time he referred to Bones as an “African.” Bones replied that he was from
Louisiana, not Africa. Marc had to explain that that is how he would be described in France with
his dark skin. He didn’t need to explain that most American Whites used descriptions that were
less kind.
Marc paused and watched Bones and five other Africans who were slouched in chairs, or
sitting on the bar’s porch rail, smoking and enjoying the cool Texas evening. Tobacco smoke and
cheap cologne wafted through the air. The glowing tips of their cigarettes danced around the dark
porch, their hands gesturing to illustrate their discussion. Their animated conversation was often
interrupted by bursts of laughter coming from deep within their souls. The sound of hands
slapping on knees, as some of the men rocked back and forth in their chairs, interlaced their
mirth and merriment as they enjoyed each other’s company. A raucous jazz beat came from
inside the bar.
“ ‘Ello Bones,” Marc said, interrupting them with his soft French accent.
“Hey there Marc,” a thin, sharp dressed man replied with welcome in his voice. He
almost didn’t recognize the tall Frenchman with his clean clothes, sport jacket and unrumpled
felt hat.
Edward “Bones” Jones had also taken the time to go home and clean up after his long day
in the hold of the Grandcamp. The work stained, tattered hat he’d worn all day was replaced with
a gray teardrop crown fedora, with green and yellow feathers jauntily sticking out of its black
silk hatband. Instead of the sweaty, striped denim coveralls Marc was accustomed to seeing him
in, Bones now sported a wide lapel, tropical wool suit that hung well on his thin frame. He was
ready to impress any ladies that might venture by.
Bones was a hardworking man from the bayous of Louisiana. He had earned the
nickname of Bones as a child because “He’s so skinny he has to stand sideways to cast a shadow.
He ain’t nuthin but a bag-o-bones.” Even as an adult he had almost no fat, but he did have ropes
of muscles on his arms and on his neck. The dark skin that stretched over his working man’s
hands and arms had numerous scars that told of a tough life.
Bones got up from his chair and walked over to shake the Frenchman’s hand. He flashed
a smile full of white teeth, as he asked, “What’s happenen? What you doin down here?”
“I thought I would enjoy one more evening in your wonderful country before the
Grandcamp sails,” Marc answered, as he pumped Bone’s hand in a firm grip. “Who are your
friends here?”
“You know Rufus, that’s Clyde, Leroy, and Johnny, and that skinny shadow over in the
corner is Elijah,” Bones replied, pointing to each man, as he grasped Marc’s arm and led him
over to the group.
Leaning against a column supporting the porch’s roof was Rufus Honeycutt, a huge man
with a build that could easily conjure up an image of a Black, bald Sampson. While there was a
hint of flab around his midsection, there was no mistaking the power and strength contained
within his muscled body. With a deep rolling voice he guffawed, “Man, if you think this is a
wonderful country, then the place you came from must really stink.” All five of the other men
broke out in laughter.
Marc smiled, and diplomatically chose not to correct himself by excluding this stretch of
Texas coast from his description of the United States. Instead he replied, “Oh, there is beauty
everywhere if you just look for it.”
Elijah responded, “Yeah, if you White there is.” The laughter subsided.
Marc felt it wise to leave, and not pursue this conversation. After several seconds of
silence, he said “I will see you tomorrow Bones.”
“No you won’t,” Bones divulged with a touch of sadness. “I won’t be loading any manure
on the Grandcamp tomorrow. The boss man says me and Rufus will be working on the Wilson B
Keene instead.”
“What?” Clyde, a skinny, light coffee-colored man who was sitting on the porch rail
exclaimed with a note of surprise, “You been loading up shit to send over there?”
“Least that what the bags say,” Bones responded. “Bags say fertilizer, and as best as I
know, fertilizer’s manure.”
Marc did not correct his friend. While it is true that manure is fertilizer, not all fertilizer is
manure. What they had been loading all day was Ammonium Nitrate, a chemical the Americans
manufactured for the bombs they had used to blast the Fascists into submission. Now that the
war was over, they were selling it to France and the rest of war torn Europe because it was also
an excellent fertilizer.
“Of course its processed manure,” Bones continued. “It ain’t like we’re loading no turds
or piles of shit, or nothing like that. Stuff looks like little crystals. It’s hot too, like a compost
heap.”
Leroy leaned forward in his flower-shaped metal rocking chair and asked incredulously,
“You sayin they ain’t got enough shit over there, they need some of our shit?”
“Yes,” Marc chimed in with a chuckle, as he dragged his shoe back and forth across the
rough surface of the street, “That is it. With all the war we have had, France has gotten the shit
knocked out of it.” This time all seven men laughed loudly.
“Well that’s a good thing,” Elijah added from the dark corner of the porch. “If we send
them all the shit we got over here, then the man won’t have no shit left to lay on us.” The
laughter subsided once again.
Marc took his cue and turned to leave.“Adieu my friend,” he imparted, as he started to
leave, “It has been a pleasure to get to know you Bones.”
“No Marc,” Bones retorted softly to the Frenchman’s back. “The pleasure’s been all
mine.”
As Marc left the group, Leroy turned to Bones and observed, “Don’t hardly ever see a
White man talk to Coloreds like that.”
“They’re like that over there, I’m told,” Bones explained. “They look at us, they just see
a man with dark skin.”
“And he calls this a wonderful country?” Elijah lamented, his smile disappearing. They
all sat in silence watching this strange man walk away, the crunching of his footsteps fading as
he strode up the shell-paved road.

* * * * * *
Carol sat in the middle of the convertible’s bench seat next to Will, as he drove down 6th
Street toward the Corner Drugstore. She didn’t feel the need to be so close to him, it was just
what couples did when they went out.
Ahead she could see the bright lights of the Drug Store’s windows, glaring in contrast to
the dark storefronts that lined Texas City’s business district. Rectangular facades of varying
heights faced the broad boulevard, some made of stone and brick, some just made of wood.
Narrow alleys and the occasional side street gave access to the rear of these establishments.
Across 6th Street from the drugstore glowed the lights of Meyers’ Grocery. They
illuminated the aging store-keeper as he prepared to close for the night, moving the boxes of
produce inside from the display racks lining the sidewalk. At the border of merchant’s row,
windows high up on the walls of the school gym created pools of light in the darkened
schoolyard.
Riding in the open topped car Carol heard the crickets and frogs chirping and croaking in
the tall grass that lined the edge of the playground mixing with the sounds of the children inside
the gym playing one last game of volleyball.
Carol enjoyed the faint scent of blooming Chinaberry trees that wafted in the breeze, and
the feel of the cool air on her cheek. Many women would envy her, riding next to this handsome,
broad shouldered man. She was blessed with so much. She should be completely happy.
The streets were almost deserted, with only an occasional sedan rolling down the wide
boulevard carrying its occupants home to a late supper. Parked around the drugstore were a half
dozen other cars. All of them were older, pre-war models, with the exception of one new, low
slung, dark green Chevy coupe. Naturally Will chose to park next to it.
Climbing out of the car Will admired the new Chevy’s chrome as it sparkled in the store’s
bright lights. He looked at his reflection in the coupe’s smooth, polished paint, and straightened
his jacket.
The dun-colored Ford convertible they’d arrived in wasn’t even Will’s. It belonged to
Carol. It was a Christmas gift given to her from her doting father. Will didn’t own a car of his
own, and the Dodge sedan provided to him by the Texas Department of Public Safety wasn’t
supposed to be used for personal business. Besides, Carol would rather die than be seen riding
around in a Highway Patrol prowl car.
Will stood beside the open car door and gently took Carol’s hand as she climbed out. As
she stood, she took the opportunity to look at her own reflection in the new paint of the Chevy.
The reflection was of a strikingly good looking brunette, with fair skin and big brown eyes.
Mimicking the starlets featured in the latest fashion magazines, Carol wore a light cotton sweater
over her shoulders, with a silk scarf covering her carefully coiffured hair. She really should be
pleased with herself.
Stepping away from the car Carol noticed that the springtime song of Texas City’s
wildlife had been replaced by the murmur of the people inside the drugstore, along with Frank
Sinatra crooning on the jukebox. The scent of the Chinaberry blossoms were overpowered by the
smell of hamburgers cooking on the grille.
Will smiled at her, closing the door and taking her arm. Together they walked into one of
Texas City’s preferred night spots.
* * * * * *
Making his way into the Business District of Texas City Martc thought about Bones,
Rufus and their friends. He understood why these Africans were so uncomfortable around the
White people here in the south. This reminded him of how the Bosch treated the French after
they had occupied his land. The wisest thing a Frenchman could do was to avoid the invaders
whenever possible. What Marc could not understand was why so many of the Whites hated the
Africans so. Somewhere in America’s history these Africans must have done something very
terrible to them.
Marc’s musings about the Africans evaporated as he entered the brightly lit drug store.
From the corner juke-box, a deep voiced singer crooned about going to the moon. A haze of
smoke swirled slowly around the large globes that illuminated the soda fountain. About a dozen
people sat at the bar, or in the booths directly across from it. A pimply faced young soda jerk,
wearing a ketchup stained white shirt and grease splattered white pants, stood behind the bar,
wiping a glass with a dirty hand towel.
Looking around the Drugstore he spied a large, square shouldered man entering the store
behind him. With him was a lovely brunette, with bangs that were cut evenly above two of the
darkest, deepest eyes Marc had ever seen. As they stepped past him to go into a nearby booth,
the man nodded to him, and the woman smiled with an expression that made Marc’s heart skip a
beat.
Marc took a stool at the far end of the bar, close to where they sat, so he could admire the
belle femme from the corner of his eye. Marc considered it odd how an industrial town like
Texas City, that completely lacked aesthetics, could have such pretty women living in it.
The Frenchman’s deep thoughts were interrupted by the pimply faced young man
standing directly across the bar from him. “Can I help you sir?” he asked, smiling through
crooked, stained teeth.
“Yes,” Marc said, trying hard not to stare at either the soda jerk, or the couple in the
corner. “I would like a large chocolate milkshake please.”
Noticing Marc’s accent, the young man exclaimed, “You’re French!”
“Yes,” Marc replied. “I know that.” He immediately regretted saying that, as the young
man’s smile vanished. Marc was still unfamiliar with the nuances of polite conversation in
America.
“One chocolate shake coming right up, anything else?”
Marc shook his head.
* * * * *
“What do you think about the apparition at Tre Fontane, in Europe?” Carol inquired of
Will, leaning toward him with her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her palms. Her
question was referring to a news story she had heard that morning over the radio, and had
discussed at length with her co-workers during the day.
“Everyone at work was talking about it today. It’s clearly a miracle. Shirley was telling
me how she’d heard a report over the radio about how the would-be assassin has dedicated the
rest of his life to the service of God.”
Will just gazed at her. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“The assassin, in Italy, who had the Virgin Mary come to him this past Easter.” There was
a hint of disappointment in her voice because Will was apparently not paying attention. “His kid
kicked a ball into a cave and didn’t come back when he went to look for it. His dad, the assassin,
went looking for his son, and when he found him the Virgin Mary was there to tell the dad not to
kill the Pope.”
Will didn’t respond.
“Will, did you hear anything I just said?”
“Huh?” the confused man mumbled, coming out of his fugue.
“Will Albrecht, you are such a dope,” Carol snapped, angry because of her inability to
engage this man. “I think you need to take me home.” She stood up and noticed the tall, sandy
haired man at the counter staring at her. “What do you think of the apparition?” she queried him
from across the floor.
Marc didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, but he’d been eavesdropping and
had heard her explanation. “It is truly a miracle,” he said in his soft French accent.
“See!” Carol said, putting her hands on her hips in annoyance. “Everyone knows about it
except you.”
Will was at a complete loss. Her anger left him speechless. As he stood up, he turned to
the man at the counter and glared at him. His expression conveyed how much he resented his
intrusion into their evening.
When Marc saw that menacing look, he quickly turned his attention to the milkshake the
attendant had just served up. Once again, in a matter of seconds, he regretted saying what he had
said. Sincerely he hoped the angry man would leave, and that he could get back to his ship
tonight without getting into a confrontation. It wasn’t until the couple stepped out of the front
door that Marc discovered he was able to breathe normally again.
He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist and noticed that it had quit running. “This is
not good.” he thought. He had twenty three more watches just like it in his bag aboard the
Grandcamp. They were the contraband he was planning to sell in France to offset his traveling
expenses. In a commodity-scarce Europe, he would get a good price for the watches just because
they were American, double what he could get for Swiss watches.
Catching the eye of the bored soda jerk, Marc asked “Pardon me. Do you know what time
it is?” Without saying a word the young man pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward a large,
brightly lit Coca-Cola clock that was hanging on the wall.
“Thank you.” Marc said, taking his watch off to set the time and rewind it. He fished
around in his pocket for a dime to pay for his shake, then donned his hat and exited out into the
cool, breezy night.

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