The sound of heavy boots clomping on the gangplank snapped Marc out of his snooze.
Four stevedores were boarding the Grandcamp. The lead man was a stocky Mexican American
with dark, burning eyes, set in a square, unsmiling face. He wore a heavy flannel shirt over
cotton denim coveralls, as did the three other men. They set their lunch pails and bags next to the
gangplank and were ready to go to work.
Marc was relieved to see them arrive. As the newest member of the crew he was
assigned, along with that asshole Klement, to help these stevedores get the final 5,000 bags of
Ammonium Nitrate fertilizer loaded into the ship’s hold. Another four stevedores were on the
pier to load the pallets so that the dock’s crane could hoist them into the belly of the ship. The
gang onboard were there to unload them.
Marc approached the men with his hand extended. “Ello, I am Marc. Welcome to the
Grandcamp.”
The stevedores stopped abruptly. Apparently they weren’t used to being treated civilly by
a member of a ship’s crew. After a second’s hesitation, the lead man grasped Marc’s hand and
replied, “Danny Ortiz, at your service.”
After Marc greeted the other three men they went to work unbolting and removing the
hatch on hold number four. Since the longshoremen didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, Marc
decided it best not attempt to engage them in conversation. Working as a team it took them
almost ten minutes to access the hold. It was then that Marc smelled the strong scent of
something burning. It was the same burnt odor he had been catching whiffs of all morning.
Danny climbed down into the hold to see what was going on.
Marc called out to the idle ship’s officer in French, “Hey Jacque, there is something down
here that stinks, come over here and smell it.”
“That is your upper lip you are smelling,” Klement replied sarcastically, “and I don’t
need to go all the way over there to smell it.”
“No,” Marc persisted, “I think there is something burning.”
Just then the lead stevedore stuck his head up from the inside of the hold and shouted to
Marc and Klement,“Hey there! You Frenchies understand English? We’ve got a fire down here!”
“See, I told you,” Marc hissed, to a confused Klement in French. He then turned and
shouted to the stevedore in English, “Wait, I will bring some water.” He quickly grabbed two
gallon jugs of drinking water that were on the deck and ran over to the open hatch. “Here, use
this.”
Danny raised his eyebrows as he took the jugs and imparted, “I think we’re going to need
a little more than this.” He grabbed the water and disappeared into the hold.
Marc turned to the starboard side of the ship, just forward of the open hatch, and ran
toward the soda-acid fire extinguisher that was secured there. “Grab the other extinguisher,” he
shouted in French to the baffled Klement, who with his limited English had no idea of what was
going on. It was only when he saw Marc grab the extinguisher and run back toward the hatch
that he began to comprehend what was happening.
Wisps of smoke began to rise out of the open hatch, and out of the rusty funnel shaped
ventilators that Marc had just opened to ventilate the hold. The three other stevedores watched
their mate in the hold through the open hatch as he tried to extinguish the blaze.
Moving with purpose and haste for the first since he left France, the now alarmed Ship’s
Officer ran over to the second extinguisher on the port side, grabbed it and ran back toward
Marc, who had already handed his extinguisher down to the stevedore in the hold. “This will not
be enough,” Marc rattled excitedly in French to Klement. “Lets sound the alarm and grab some
fire hoses.”
Klement turned to do just that, when he ran right into the chest of the Captain, who had
just climbed down from the bridge to see what was going on. “I see the new deck hand has taken
over your duties as an officer,” the Captain sneered to him tersely in French.
“Yes Captain,” Klement mumbled embarrassedly, as he straightened himself to an erect
standing position, “I mean, no Captain.”
“Then what is going on here?” the Captain asked the now red-faced Klement.
“It seems we have a fire in hold number four, and we need to extinguish it.”
“So I see.” The Captain shot back. “And you are going to sound the alarm and water
down my cargo on this deck hand’s recommendation?”
“Yes Captain. I mean, no Captain.” Klement furrowed his eyes and thought furiously.“I
mean, yes Captain.” Behind him the stevedore had climbed out of the burning hold, coughing
and hacking, holding a handkerchief to his face. Marc gestured to the other three stevedores to
come over to where he was standing, next to the closest of the ship’s fire stations. A thin plume
of the brightly colored, reddish orange smoke was beginning to snake its way above the bridge of
the ship. Together the five men began unrolling a fire hose and dragging it towards the open
hatch.
“STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING!” the Captain shouted to them in barely intelligible
English. He then stepped past the shaking Klement and strode over to Marc and the stevedores.
He barked to Marc in rapid-fire French, “You idiot, if you use that hose to put out the fire, you
will ruin all of the cargo in that hold. Tell them to put the hatch cover back on. We will close the
ventilators and force steam in there to smother the fire.”
“Yes Captain,” Marc responded. He turned to the longshoremen and shouted to them in
English,“Let’s put the cover back on the hold. We will smother the fire.” The men shrugged their
shoulders collectively and put down the hose.
Danny looked at Marc with skepticism in his eyes. “You know with that red smoke that
the fire in there is a chemical fire, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Marc answered honestly.
“If a chemical fire gets hot enough it can’t be smothered. Putting on the hatch and filling
it with steam might not do a damn thing.”
“I’m certain the Captain knows what he is doing,” Marc explained hopefully.
The stevedore just shook his head, as he walked purposefully with Marc over to the open
hatch. Grabbing the heavy metal cover, the five men began to wrestle it into place and bolt it
securely to the deck.
The Captain strode back over to where the trembling Klement was standing. He stopped,
with his ample nose just inches from the inept officer’s worried countenance. Quietly he
addressed him in French, with terse, clipped sentences, “Close the ventilators. Then flood hold
number four with steam. When you are done,” he continued, turning to look at where Marc and
the Stevedores were working furiously, “go back and fire that oaf. Tell the laborers that we will
finish loading this afternoon.” When the Captain turned to go to the Bridge, Klement ran off to
do as he was told.
As soon as Marc and the stevedores had the hatch secured in place, they dragged a heavy
tarpaulin over it and stacked some creosote soaked timbers on top of the cover. The smoke
creeping out of the ventilators began to snake down to the deck where it formed a gossamer
carpet. As Klement closed off each ventilator, the volume of smoke coming out of the others
increased. When he closed off the last ventilator, he went over to the steam valve on the side of
the cabin and spun the wheel to its full open position.
Meanwhile, the smoke and the commotion began attracting other dock workers. They
stopped what they were doing and gathered along the pier. Members of the crew began to climb
out of the engine room and crew’s quarters to congregate on the deck.
Marc and the four longshoremen stood around the closed hatch, watching Klement as he
went about sealing off the hold. When he finished, he came over to Marc and sniveled in French,
“Tell the men they are finished for the morning. We will resume loading this afternoon. Then go
down to your quarters and get your gear. You are fired.”
“What?” Marc objected incredulously, with his voice rising in anger. “What do you mean
fired? Why are you firing me?”
“Because you started the fire on this ship,” Klement shouted back, waving his arm and
pointing all around the ship. “I watched you smoking over there. Why do you think we have all
of these signs that say no smoking?”
The ship’s crew, who were on the deck watching these events, all looked at each other
with amazed expressions.
“You were smoking too,” Marc gasped. “You know I did not start that fire.”
“I know no such thing,” Klement hissed.“Now get your things and go.”
“What about my pay?”
“Leave your address with the purser,” Klement reposted, shrugging his shoulders, as he
started to walk off. “We will mail your wages to you.”
“You asshole!” Marc spat out to ship officer’s back.
Crestfallen, Marc walked back to the stevedores with his shoulders slumped. As he
approached the men who were standing by the battened down lid, he could hear gasses escaping
through the seals with a whistling sound. “We are done for this morning,” he told the them in
English, “Come back this afternoon.”
“Why?” the Danny asked, “That fire will still be here.”
“I’m sorry,” Marc replied sincerely. “This is not my thinking. I’m just telling you what I
was told to tell you. I won’t be here this afternoon, I’m afraid. They just fired me for starting this
fire.”
“What a couple of maroons, there’s no way you could have started that fire,” Danny
fumed, with the other three nodding in agreement.
“Again, I am sorry,” the Frenchman lamented, as he extended his hand to bid the
stevedores farewell. Each of the four accepted his handshake and nodded to him in condolence,
before they turned and headed down the gangplank. Marc dejectedly walked to the crew’s
quarters to gather his belongings. The gathered crewmen parted as the tall Frenchman
approached.
Stepping into the hallway leading to his quarters, Marc spotted the Terminal Supervisor,
along with another man wearing a dark suit, standing just outside of the Captain’s open cabin
door. They were discussing something in an animated fashion, but quit talking when Marc
stepped into view. They stood and stared at him, as he made his way to the crew’s quarters.
Marc wondered what that was all about. Why were those men on the ship, and what were
they talking about? As he entered the bunk-room, Marc looked at his watch. Only thirty-six
minutes had passed since the stevedores had begun to board the ship. He wondered if the watch
had stopped again.
* * * * * *
Danny trudged dejectedly down the pier toward Dock Road. Swinging his lunch pail, he
wondered what he was going to tell Estelle about why he earned less than an hour’s wages today.
He had looked around for the Terminal Supervisor, or one of the foremen, but they were nowhere
to be seen. All of the work that was available today had already been assigned. Everywhere men
were busy, unloading the hundreds of boxcars parked on the tracks next to the docks, or
emptying the warehouses into the waiting ships. There was a full crew working on the Wilson B.
Keene, and the High Flyer, docked on the same slip as the Grandcamp, was already loaded. The
only reason it was still in port was because of some trouble with her turbines.
Danny had served on Liberty ships just like the Grandcamp during the war. At the end of
the hostilities, he, along with all of the other non-white sailors, had been replaced by white guys
who had served in the Navy. That’s when he began working on the docks.
The stevedore paused for a step to look across the south slip at the huge smokestack in
the middle of Monsanto Chemical Company belching toxic fumes into the sky. In the distance he
could hear the steam locomotives hiss and bang as they shuttled boxcars around the terminal.
Looking around he noticed that the traffic on Dock Road had slowed to a trickle, as the people
who had work to do today were already at their assigned tasks. The whole area throbbed with
industry and the promise of a good day’s wages for everyone. Everyone except for him.
Danny resented the circumstances he found himself in. Those stupid Frenchmen thought
they could smother that chemical fire. Once chemicals reach a certain temperature, they start
changing and feeding off of themselves. He knew this from his experiences during the war as a
Merchant Marine. The only sure way to put that fire out is to lower the temperature down to a
point where they regain stability and the only way to do that would be to fill that hold with water.
If they did that, he and the gang would get paid to completely unload the contents of that hold so
they could clean up the mess the fire made.
Working as a stevedore on the docks is hard, grueling work. Often it wasn’t as steady as
he would’ve liked for it to be. With a pregnant wife in their tiny home in east Galveston, the
pressure to earn a living weighed heavily on his shoulders. Still, the wages he earned as a
longshoreman were much higher than anything he could earn pushing a broom. Mexicans along
the coast of Texas didn’t get hired for much else.
Danny wasn’t from this part of Texas. His people were in San Antonio where he grew up.
Things were different there. Mexicans weren’t treated as second class citizens. He’d be living
there now, except Estelles’ family all live along this part of the coast. He had to really work to
keep his resentments in check. Hell! His maternal great, great, great grandfather died at the
Alamo fighting for Texas’ Independence and here were these White newcomers treating him as
an immigrant.
His reverie was interrupted by someone yelling, “Hey Danny!” It was his buddy, Carlos
Rodriguez, shouting at him from inside his beat up old Chevy. He was parked at the end of Dock
Road. Danny picked up his pace and walked over to the jalopy’s open window.
“Hey vato, what’s happening?” Danny queried loudly to his friend, as he leaned in on the
passenger door’s window sill. The muffler on the old car had long since rusted through. The
smoky engine idled with a clatter that sounded like a bunch of metal cans being kicked around.
“I couldn’t find any work today,” Carlos replied, “I overslept and got here late. I thought
I’d go see if there’s anything at the docks in Galveston.”
“Me too. Normally if there’s nothing here though, there’ll be nothing there. Still, trying is
better than crying. Mind if I ride with you?”
“No man, that’s why I yelled at you, Get in.”
Opening the door with the inside handle, Danny climbed in and sank deep into the wornout
seat. “Besides, if there’s no work there, then I’ll be a lot closer to home and Estelle’s
disapproving look.” Both of the men began to laugh. Carlos ground the old car in to gear and
turned it east toward 6th Street. The car’s engine raised a ruckus with a pall of gray smoke rolling
out from beneath the undercarriage.
* * * * * *
Carol hung up the phone, stood up and put her sweater on. Grabbing her purse she
rummaged around inside it till she found her compact. She checked her hair and lipstick, and
wondered if she had a scarf in her glove box so that she could run Mr. Johnson’s errands today
with the top down. She thought about asking him if she could delegate some of the work she had
piling up on her desk. Carol knew what his answer would be. The paperwork would be waiting
for her when she got back.
Satisfied that she looked presentable, she carefully placed her chair behind her desk and
made certain that everything was as it was supposed to be before she left. As she headed to the
south side of the office building, where her boss’s office was, she noticed a small group of
employees gathered at the windows that overlooked the slip.
“Hey Shirley,” Carol said to a co-worker, joining her at the window. “What’s going on?”
Shirley looked at Carol and responded, “Look at that freighter over there. It’s on fire.
Have you ever seen such pretty smoke?”
Across the slip, the Grandcamp now had beautiful tendrils of orange and red smoke
creeping out of it.
Carol placed her hand on Shirley’s arm. “I’ve got to go to Mr. Johnson’s office now. I’ll
be right back.”
“Well if that alligator comes with you, do us a favor and make a lot of noise so we can get
to our desks and look busy,” Shirley replied with a grin. The others gathered at the window
chuckled appreciatively.
As Carol walked down the hallway to the boss’ office she could see other employees
getting up to join Shirley at the windows.
Stepping into the boss’s reception area she spotted his personal secretary, Marge, banging
away on a black Underwood typewriter. Her gray hair was tied up in a bun. Already there were
wisps of hair falling down on her forehead. Without looking up, she greeted Carol by saying,
“Go on in, he’s waiting for you.”
“Good morning,” Carol replied sweetly, just to irritate her. It didn’t work. She didn’t
look up and she didn’t slow down in her furious pecking at the typewriter keys.
Carol gently knocked on the door, slowly opened it and peeked in.
“Come on in,” her boss barked from the chair behind his desk. On top of his desk was a
tall stack of manila envelopes. He grabbed the stack and handed it to Carol. “Here’s what I need
for you to deliver. I’ve got the person I need to get this to and their address on each one. If
they’re not there, then don’t just leave it with someone. Find out when they’re supposed to return
and go back later and give it to them personally. I don’t need this stuff sitting on some moron
underling’s desk for a week.”
Carol took the stack of envelopes and swallowed. This could take a couple of days if a lot
of the recipients weren’t at their places of work. She gathered up her courage and asked, “But
what about the work that I’m supposed to be doing?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, smiling at Carol for the first time ever. “It’ll be there
waiting for you when you get back. Nobody’s going to do it for you.”
Carol returned her boss’s smile with a tight lipped grimace. “Will there be anything
else?”
“Yeah, do me a favor and tell those deadbeats watching that fire that if they’re still there
when I step out of my office, there are going to be some job openings here next week.”
Carol’s grimace vanished and she swallowed. Raising an eyebrow, she turned on her heel
and left without any further comment.
Striding through the reception area she heard a soft “whump” come from outside the
building, followed a second later by the ship’s whistle as it screamed its cry for help.