Friend and Foe

© 2013 by David G. Weaver. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9845-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9844-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9843-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923724

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

DEDICATED TO

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

DEDICATED TO

Amateur Radio Operators around the world.

Especially those who relay messages from

deployed service personnel.

CHAPTER 1

On the big wooden-decked wharf, Joe Sullivan leaned his lanky body against the sun-warmed concrete facing of the firebreak between Headhouses 9 and 10. He looked up at the sparkling clean hull and superstructure of the Japanese motor ship, Kuri Maru, in admiration. The shiny black shell contrasted starkly with the snowy whiteness of the deckhouses and the orange-yellow of the masts, kingposts and booms. Every inch of the ship appeared spotless, scrupulously immaculate. Boy! Joe thought, I’d sure like to get the chance to sail on a beautiful baby like that. Joe often dreamed of traveling, being out on his own, seeing distant, romantic places, doing wonderful things.

Out on the broad deck of the pier, shouting, cursing, sweating negro stevedores scampered about, tugging awkward heaps of rusty scrap iron into cargo slings to be hoisted aboard ship and stored in its bowels. From his vantage point Joe watched as the cargo booms swung out over the wharf, empty slings dangling down to waiting men. One of the muscular black longshoremen would grab the steel loop, release it from the hook on the cargo cable, and allow it to fall to the wooden decking. Then, quickly, other men would grab the hook and, grunting and straining, pull it over to a readied load of junk steel and slip the sling-cable loop over the hook. Then the men would dash away from the clanking, swaying-pendulum danger, as the wench operator aboard the ship shifted his levers and sent the clutch of cargo upward to hurtle over the rail and disappear into the gaping maw of the cargo hold. As soon as the load was lifted, the men on the pier scurried about readying another load.

Above the cacophony of nagging, shouting, and cursing, Joe heard the piercing screams of seagulls. Looking toward the stern of the ship, he could see a huddle of Japanese sailors along the railing, tossing bits of food into the air for the excited birds to catch and gulp down. That’s pretty nice of those guys, Joe thought, feeding the gulls like that. Those Jap fellows aren’t as bad as the news people make them out to be. They sure aren’t anything like the ones I’ve seen in the picture magazines like Life and Look, and in the movie newsreels. Everybody heard tales about how vicious most Oriental people were. They were told that cruel, heartless Chinese parents murdered their infant daughters, and they heard about such things as the terrible Chinese water torture and the ten-thousand-cuts punishment. But, right here in front of his eyes, Joe saw a group of Japanese seamen sharing their food with the birds and acting as if they were thoroughly enjoying it. He turned his attention back to the activity on the wharf.

A sudden increase in the volume of screeching caused Joe to turn again and take another look at the cluster of men on the after deck of the Kuri Maru. Two of those men were making synchronous tossing motions; wheeling above their heads chunks of meat tied to the ends of string, as the flock of excited gulls hovered above on frantically beating pinions, churning and screaming as if pleading for the food.

Two walnut size chunks of meat soared upward simultaneously and several seagulls dove upon the loot, slashing at each other in their eagerness to snatch the bits of food out of the air. Almost at once the tethered hunks of meat were caught in midair and disappeared down identical gullets. The two triumphant birds attempted to rise. There was a moment of utter confusion in the flock of gyrating, squawking gulls, and then the pair that had snared the food fell awkwardly into the river. The struggling birds rose valiantly from the water only to flop back down again as the twelve feet long string tether between them grew taut, jerking against the inner surfaces of their craws, sending the bewildered birds floundering downward again and again into the foamy water.

Up on the ship’s deck, the excited sailors whooped and laughed as they danced about in merriment, pointing and gesturing at the stricken birds struggling to lift themselves into the air on thrashing, frightened wings. Joe stared up at the group of seamen in utter disbelief. A moment earlier he had considered them to be beneficent, generous, caring nature-lovers. Now, as he witnessed their malicious barbarism, he felt sick at his stomach. His face clouded with anger, disgust and frustration.

A small man, clad in the white uniform of a ship’s officer, raced out of the door at the rear of the deckhouse and began to loudly berate the assembly of sailors. Joe, of course, was unable to understand the Japanese tirade, but the officer’s gestures made it quite clear that he was chastising the crewmen. The seamen edged away, cringing, and sulked off like whipped puppies. But the damage was already done and there was little anyone could do for the tied-together seagulls. Either they would eventually break the string or they would die of starvation.

The teenage boy continued to stare up at the stern deck of the motor ship. The man in the white uniform made his way to the railing and looked down. He raised both hands above his shoulders in a gesture of nonchalance or, possibly, helplessness. Then he turned and slowly made his way back to the door of the deckhouse. Joe took the man’s gesture as meaning, So what? The man’s action intensified the boy’s anger. Damn stinkin’ Japs, he muttered aloud. They really are like the magazines and movies say. Dirty, stinkin’ yellow bellies.

Feeling the bile rising in his belly and angry at the villainous acts of the Japanese sailors, Joe turned away from the activities on the pier and headed for home with dragging steps.

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Joseph Aloysius Sullivan was almost sixteen. He was tall for his age and rather slender—thin, skinny. His dark brown hair was a little too long, but it was summer time, school vacation time. No school for another two months. Besides, haircuts cost 35 cents and that was money he’d rather spend on something else. His face and arms were suntanned to a nut brown. There was a slight gap between his upper front teeth and he had long ago learned to whistle through that gap, but Joe didn’t feel like whistling now. Little beads of perspiration dripped from the hairs at the back of his neck, making those hairs turn up in tiny ducktails just above the collar of his khaki shirt. Only a slight limp marred the picture of exuberant, youthful, good health.

That little limp didn’t mean much to Joe. He never allowed his mind to dwell on it. It had never been a hindrance in sports, no handicap at all. He played baseball and basketball as well as any of the other guys and he could swim, hike, and row a boat with the best of them, better that most fellows his age. But hardly anybody knew that.

Joe vividly recalled the time last year when 12 year old Harry Lloyd had slipped and fallen off the pier into the swift flowing ebb tide and was being swept perilously near the oyster encrusted pilings that support the wharf. Herbie, Harry’s older brother, transfixed with fear and indecision, stood and watched his kid brother being carried closer and closer to the razor sharp shells and the undertow caused by the venturi effect between the pilings. Without hesitation, Joe had kicked off his sneakers, peeled off his shirt and trousers and dived into the raging river. Swimming strongly, he raced to the struggling youngster, grabbed Harry’s shirt and turned toward the shore. With his strong side stroke, Joe fought the swift current and pulled the boy to the beach where the still shock-ridden Herbie had regained enough composure to help haul his brother from the water.

No one ever heard about that rescue. Herbie and Harry were afraid to tell their parents about the narrow escape since they were forbidden to be on the pier without adult supervision. So they swore Joe to secrecy and no one ever learned anything about his act of heroism. Only the three youngsters knew of Joe’s quick reaction to the emergency and his strength under stress. None of them would ever tell.

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As he strode purposefully along the red gravel road, Joe looked neither right nor left. His hazel brown eyes were riveted straight ahead. There was no reason for him to look to the sides; he knew every inch of the place by heart. He’d been living there at the Port Terminal ever since 1927 and he had covered every square foot of the place more than once during those eight years.

John Sullivan, Joe’s father, was responsible for all outside operations and maintenance at the big plant. It fell to him to insure that visiting ships were properly serviced with electrical power and fresh water since they were unable to provide those vital elements while tied up at the pier. He was also in charge of the men who looked after the many miles of railroad tracks and the aging wooden platforms and the floors of the warehouses in the extensive complex built by the US Army as a port of embarkation during the Great War—WW I.

Joe stalked, face down, along the pebbled road toward the two-story gray house on the hill a quarter mile ahead, he was besieged by anger, loneliness, and depression. The balmy breeze wafting in from the southeast did little to cheer him. It only dried the sweat on his forehead. The half-moon stains at the armpits of his khaki shirt attested to the humidity of that late June day. Over to his right, across a weed-choked field, was a long, 20 feet high, pile of rusting scrap metal. Ordinarily that dull mass of junk would have presented an invitation as it loomed above the coarse brush of the field. It usually was a tempting lure, one he always found difficult to resist. But not today. This time Joe, seething from the experience on the wharf, ignored the siren call.

Ordinarily on a pleasant day like this, Joe, Herbie and Harry would be over there at that junk pile, searching for treasure. There were lots of great things to be discovered in that heap of discarded metal; things like hoops, bearings, Model-T Ford magneto magnets, plow shears, rakes, hoes, shovels, and other pieces of fabulous wealth. Ordinarily he’d be over there, hunting. But not today. Today he was alone with his thoughts. Herbie and Harry were not around.

Herbie, recently graduated from high school, had enlisted in the Army with his parents’ consent. It was a minority enlistment so the elder Lloyds had to sign the papers. Now Harry and Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd were in the city downstream. They had accompanied Herbert to the Union Railroad Depot. Joe wasn’t a part of the family, but he would have liked to have gone with them to see Herbie off. Instead, he was left there all alone.

Joe raised his eyes and glanced over at the rusty pile. All too soon, he knew that wonderful treasure trove of discarded steel would be gone, scooped up by powerful cranes, carted off to the waterfront, and dumped unceremoniously into the gaping cargo holds of foreign merchant ships. The Japanese seemed to be the principal purchasers. They appeared to be buying up all the scrap metal they could. They said they had to have it in their mills to produce new materials since the home islands could not provide iron ore. So, before long there would be no more treasure hunts, no more wonderful discoveries of rare and intriguing objects.

Hey, Crip, a caustic voice yelled from the platform to his left. Whatcha doin’, Gimp? Whatcha up ta now, Dummy?

Joe tried to keep his face forward. He looked at his tormentor out of the corner of his eye and recognized Johnny Driggers, an acerbic fellow who always seemed to take particular delight in teasing him. Driggers was a squat, heavy-set young redneck in his late twenties. At that moment he was walking in a circle, affecting an exaggerated limp and pointing a ridiculing finger at Joe.

Bin down ta da docks lookin’ faw a gal, have ya, lil boy? Driggers snickered. Lotsa nice niggah gals down dere. Fine one dat wud take yew on, Limpy?

Ain’ no gal, black aw white, gonna pull down huh pants faw a dummy like dat, Charlie Doyle put in, as he and the other laborers set aside their tools and joined in the fun.

Dazz right, Andy Potts added. Dem gals wants a real man, a real he-man, somebody dat know somethin’, not a cripple dummy kid.

Yah, Driggers hooted, ain’ no gal evah gonna go faw no gimpy halfwit, dat’s faw shoah.

They all hee-hawed and cackled, making obscene gestures at the young man on the road. Joe gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, gulping in great swallows of air. He was no match for those tough men and there was nothing he could do but take the abuse and move on. He increased his pace and hurried toward home, feeling even more depressed than before. Now he was also humiliated. It was always that way. People put him down: classmates teasing, girls calling him hayseed or country boy, workers ridiculing him. No wonder he never had dates or went to parties. He’d much rather be alone than hang around with people like that.

But Joe didn’t really want to be a loner. He looked down at his left foot and cursed under his breath. That foot with its missing toes was the cause of all his embarrassment. It was also the reason he’d never be able to enlist in the Army or Navy. Three toes had been amputated from that foot when six-year-old Joe had accidentally crushed it under a slab of concrete while playing at a constriction site. Old Doctor Moore had tried his best to save those toes, but there was very little circulation and gangrene had set in. To save the entire foot—and possibly Joe’s life—the medic had reluctantly resorted to the scalpel.

With military service out of the question, Joe looked forward to a bleak future. In that depression year 1935, the only career opportunity readily available to untrained youth was the Army or Navy. That maimed foot negated the possibility of enlistment for Joe. What could he do after graduating high school? What was he qualified for? Cut grass? Gather firewood? Dig ditches? Pick up trash? There was little else he could do. The thought of being an angry, disgruntled common laborer like Johnny Driggers upset Joe even more than the harassment he received from schoolmates and neighbors.

Joe certainly didn’t want to grow up to be like Johnny, but it began to look like he would. There was no local vocational school. Very few jobs were available to unskilled people. Most folks took one look at Joe with that little limp and immediately assumed he was severely handicapped. At the very least those people acted as if he were somewhat retarded. Why? Was it because he didn’t talk a lot? Was it because he was quiet most of the time when adults were around? They didn’t know him. They never asked any questions that would show he was really quite smart. No, they’d tell him to do something then explain in detail how it was to be done, and then, after the task was completed, come back and check it over as if he were some dumb little kid who couldn’t do anything right. No one, not even his own parents, ever seemed to consider his ideas, his thoughts, his feelings, his abilities, or his intelligence.

CHAPTER 2

John Sullivan came home half an hour early that afternoon. As he entered the screened-in porch of the two-story house on the hill, he shouted to his wife. Honey! Grace! Where are you? Come a-runnin’, gal. We’re having company for supper.

Appearing in the open doorway, wiping her hands in her apron, Grace Sullivan faced her husband, her face set grimly. Oh, John, she began, you always do this to me! It’s lucky we’re having chicken for dinner. I sure hope there’ll be enough, else I’ll be mighty embarrassed. I do wish you’d let me know things in advance, John. She paused, stared angrily at her husband for a long moment, then stomped her foot peevishly. Just who is this guest you’ve invited anyway?

Oh, he’s the radio officer on that Jap ship, John explained. Name is Mister Oki. I only met him this mornin’. Saw him again this afternoon an’ we got to talkin’. You see, Gracie, he’s the only one on that ship that speaks English. Well, you know how it is, one thing led to another and . . . .

Well, Grace interrupted, cutting him off in mid-sentence, why in the world did you have to invite him to supper tonight? Why not tomorrow?

I don’t rightly know, honey, John said, making a wry face at his wife. We got to talkin’ about our families an’ such, an’ he said somethin’ about bein’ lonely for his parents, and his home, an’ such. Well, next thing ya know, I was askin’ him if he’d like a nice home-cooked meal.

Land sakes, John. When will you ever learn? I certainly hope he likes chicken, rice and gravy. Oh, of course. Those Japanese people all like rice. Well anyway, I sure wish you’d let me know when you’re gonna bring someone home for dinner, John Sullivan. She frowned and shook a fist at her husband in mock anger.

Now, Gracie, I just told you I didn’t know myself ’til just a little while ago. Besides, it should be kind of nice for that boy of ours to get to talk to an educated man from another part of the world. You know what I mean.

Yes. I suppose so, she agreed. Joey might learn something from that Mister Oki at that. Lord knows he can use all the help he can get. Grace pursed her lips and nodded gravely.

Where is the boy, anyhow? John demanded, looking around the porch then through the open door behind his wife.

Oh, he’s up in his room sulking ’bout somethin’ he saw or heard down at the docks. He went down there earlier then came back all upset. Tromped through the house an’ went upstairs without saying much at all, Grace explained, looking at John with her head tilted to one side. Then she asked, What time did you tell that fellow to be here?

I think I said about six o’clock, Gracie. I might be mistaken, though. John replied, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

Grace shook her head and let out a deep sigh of resignation as she turned back and stomped into the kitchen at the rear of the house.

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Takeo Oki arrived at the Sullivan home at precisely 6 PM. He tapped on the frame of the screen door to the verandah and stepped back to wait. There was no answer to his knock and there was no one in view on the wide piazza that ran across the entire front of the building. On the porch he could see several straight backed chairs and a chain-hung swing. There were potted plants distributed along the walls. He went back to the door and rapped again, this time a bit harder.

Yes? Oh, you must be Mister Oki? Grace inquired hesitatingly from the inner doorway.

Yes, ma’am. I am Takeo Oki. Please call me Takeo. Mister Sullivan was gracious enough to invite me to dinner. I hope I have not disrupted your evening. You are Mistress Sullivan?

Grace. Grace Sullivan. Please come in, Mister Oki, ah, ah, Takeo. My husband and son are cleaning up for supper. They’ll be out directly. Please have a seat out there on the piazza. It’s much cooler out there than inside this hot house. Just put your package over there. She nodded her head sideways at a small marble-topped table near the door.

Please take this, Grace, Takeo said, handing the woman a brown paper bag. It’s a small present for you and your husband.

What is it? Grace asked as she hefted the package. Feels like a bottle of something.

That’s exactly what it is, Grace. It’s a bottle of rice wine from my country. I thought you and Mister Sullivan might enjoy a taste of our national drink. Takeo bowed stiffly from his waist and smiled.

Why, that’s very thoughtful of you, Takeo. I’ll take it inside. Now, please take a seat and make yourself at home. I have to watch that supper doesn’t burn. Grace turned and hurried into the house, her apron flapping against her knees like a flag, and her low heels clopping on the bare wooden floor.

Takeo strolled around the porch for a few minutes, inspecting the various potted plants and the furnishings. Then he went to the swing and eased himself onto the seat and began to swing gently to and fro. The chains creaked musically.

Joe stood just inside the front door. From that place he covertly observed the visitor. He noted that the man was rather small, probably no more than five feet tall, and couldn’t weight much more than 130 pounds. But the man seemed to carry his trim, wiry frame in a proud, military manner. He looked quite agile and strong too. Joe watched and waited several minutes, taking in the visitor’s mannerisms. The fellow emitted an air of authority and self-assurance. His white shirt and navy blue trousers were as neat and sharp as a military uniform. The man was the picture of what a ship’s officer should be, Joe thought.

At long last, the teenager ventured to step out onto the porch and shyly approach the stranger. He took a few faltering steps toward the swing then stopped as the man’s head rose and pitch black, almond-shaped eyes looked at him with an unspoken question. Joe couldn’t remember at the moment, but he was certain he had seen the man somewhere, sometime. There was something rather familiar about this man. Finally, he mumbled, I’m Joe.

Ah, yes. Joe. I’m very happy to meet you, Joe. I’m Takeo Oki. Please call me Takeo. Your father spoke of you when he invited me to have dinner with you. Takeo’s smile was warm, genuine, and catching.

Joe grinned. Yes, sir. My dad told me you were coming.

How old are you, Joe? Takeo asked. You must be in high school. Right?

Yes, sir, Joe answered with downcast eyes. I’ll be a senior when I go back in September. I’m almost 16, will be in a little over a month. He moved a little nearer the swing.

Takeo placed his feet flat on the porch floor and half-stood as he moved to the side on the swing and patted the seat beside him. Come sit here, Joe, he invited. Then, looking up into Joe’s face, he added, My but you are tall for 15. Five-ten? Five—eleven?

Five-eleven, Joe said, grinning self consciously. Dad says I’m a string bean. I really shot up this past year. I sure wish I could gain some weight, though. I’m awfully skinny.

Don’t worry, Joe. Before you know it, when you’re a little older like I am, you’ll have to watch your diet so that you don’t put on too much weight and develop a roll of fat around the midsection, Takeo said, slapping his own lean belly and chuckling. Then, looking intently into Joe’s face, he asked, Didn’t I see you down on the wharf today?

I don’t know. Maybe, Joe murmured. I was down around Headhouse Nine for a while. Maybe you saw me down there but I don’t remember seeing you on the pier.

Oh, I wasn’t on the pier. I was on the ship. But I seem to remember seeing someone like you there. Maybe I’m wrong, though.

At that moment, John Sullivan stepped out onto the porch, his hair glistening wet and slicked down from the shower he had recently gotten out of. He went directly to the swing, his right hand extended. Ah, I see you are here on time, Mister Oki, he greeted. Has my son been entertaining you?

Takeo stood and bowed stiffly from the waist then took John’s hand in a firm grasp. Yes indeed, thank you, Mister Sullivan, he said. You have a very bright young man here. He smiled at Joe. He and I have been having a nice conversation. I’m impressed with his acumen.

Joe frowned and glanced sharply at the guest, his mind in a whirl. What did I do? What did I say? Did I say something or do something wrong? Did I offend this guy? And what the devil is this acumen thing anyway? Never heard of it. Is it something bad?

Yes, Mister Oki, Joe heard his father saying. We keep after the boy all the time. He’s doing fairly well in his school work and he can be a big help around here at times, that is, if he puts his mind to it. I was wondering, Mister Oki, if maybe, after supper you might show Joey where you come from in the Atlas. Would you like that, boy? John asked, turning to Joe.

Yes, sir. That would be fine, Joe responded, glancing first at Takeo then at his father. I don’t want to be a bother, though. Why does he always do that? Why does he treat me like a baby? I’m not a dummy. I know where Japan is.

No bother at all, Takeo said quickly to Joe. Then, facing John again, Please call me Takeo, Mister Sullivan. I feel odd being called ‘mister’ by an older man of your high position.

Okay, Takeo, and you must call me John. I’m just a foreman. That’s not a high position, not too important in the scheme of things, John said. Then he added, These are hard times, you know, and a fellow must be content with any kind of job he can get. I’m very lucky to have what I have. I only hope that I’ll be able to help Joey get a job of some kind after he finishes school. So many people in America are out of work altogether, these days.

Yes, John. That is true all over the world. There was a touch of sadness in Takeo’s voice. I too am very fortunate to have a good position. My training and my hobby qualified me for the job I now hold, radio operator and communications officer. Otherwise, I too might be among the unemployed.

Your hobby? Joe asked excitedly then quickly looked at his father as if in apology for interrupting.

Yes, Takeo, John pressed. What kind of hobby could help qualify a man for a job?

Well, you see, John, Joe, Takeo explained, looking intently at Joe, my hobby and my profession are one and the same: radio communications. I majored in communications in college and my hobby has always been amateur radio. Incidentally, Joe, he said with a friendly smile, all amateur radio operators go by their first names. That’s true whether he happens to be a student, an ordinary worker, a general, a doctor, an admiral, or even an emperor. You need not address me as a ‘mister’, Joe. Just call me Takeo. Okay?

Joe’s grin extended from ear to ear. Never in his whole life had anyone of importance, or anyone even just a few years older than he was, ever suggested he drop the ‘mister’. Now here was an important ship’s officer, a college educated man twice his age, telling him to call him by his first name. Wow! Joe looked at Takeo in a semi-hero-worshiping way. This visitor was really something. Wow again!

Grace stuck her head out the door and went Pssst! When she had their attention, she waved them in with, Supper is on the table. Come on in right away so we can eat before it gets cold. She then looked intently at Joe and asked, Did you wash your hands, young man?

Joe, embarrassed, simply nodded and held out his hands for inspection.

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After they had eaten and enjoyed the chicken dinner, the three men repaired to the living room while Grace cleared the table and busied herself with doing the dishes. Joe sat open-mouthed, listening to his father and Takeo talk about the sea, places around the world, the dire situation in Hitler Germany, and of political developments all around the globe. He was amazed at the depth of his father’s knowledge of foreign affairs and felt a surge of pride that his dad could converse with such an educated man as Takeo Oki, a college graduate and world traveler.

At last the clatter of dishes, pots and pans in the kitchen subsided and Grace came to join the men. She entered the living room holding a small tray on which were three little wine goblets and a bottle of home-made elderberry-blossom wine. Placing the glasses on the coffee table, she poured golden liquid into each, and then handed one to the guest, and another to her husband. Picking up the third goblet, she held it so that the room light shone through the amber liquid. This is a little something I put up last spring, Takeo, she said. Nothing much, really. Just something we do each year. Her pride was not disguised.

Takeo sipped the wine, held it in his mouth for a long moment then swallowed. He smiled at the woman, took another small draught and said, Very nice indeed, Grace. You made this yourself?

Yes, thank you. Me and the boy. I sent Joey out to gather the blossoms and let him help by squeezing the juice through the filter bag. She sat back in her chair and basked in the visitor’s smile of praise.

Quite an accomplishment, Takeo complimented, You must be very proud of both this wonderful wine and your helper. He smiled at Joe.

Joe felt a thrill run up his back and grinned gratefully.

Yes, Grace was saying, he can be a big help sometimes. We try to bring him up right. Needs a little prodding now and then, but I think he will be all right if we can get him through high school without any serious problems.

Takeo nodded gravely then asked. If it is all right with you. John and Grace, and if Joe would care to, I’d like to invite him to visit me aboard ship tomorrow. He might enjoy seeing my operating station, my radio shack. I have a few Japanese coins I can give him to share with his schoolmates this fall. Would you like that, Joe? he asked, looking directly at the young man.

Sure thing! Joe exclaimed excitedly. Wow! He was elated. He was being asked, not told. Takeo actually wanted to know if he, Joe Sullivan, wanted to do something; was actually asking for his opinion. I’ll be there first thing in the morning, if it’s okay. He looked beseechingly at both his parents.

John simply raised his eyebrows in non-commitment while Grace diverted her eyes.

Takeo noted the expressions on the faces of the older Sullivans and suggested, How about 11 o’clock, Joe? You could look over my equipment then have lunch with me. Okay? He grinned at the excited way the youngster reacted.

Sure! Is it okay, Mom? Dad? Joe pleaded.

Can’t see anything wrong with that, boy, John finally conceded. Don’t see how you can get into any trouble doing that.

Grace then said slowly, Well, all right. Now you mind your manners, Joey and be careful down there on the wharf. You be extra careful ’round those stevedores.

CHAPTER 3

Joe started climbing the Kuri Maru’s inclined companionway. The steel steps were made of open-meshwork which allowed dirt to fall through to the river below. Spotless white canvas beneath highly polished, varnished, wooden hand-rails, formed a fence along each side of the stairway. He slid his hand along the smooth wood and marveled at the slick feeling. He grinned at his reflection in the glossy varnish that gleamed brightly in the late morning sunlight. Everything about that Japanese motor ship was immaculate. Many, in fact most, of the other freighters he had seen tied up at the Port Terminal wharf had been grimy dirty to some degree. But this ship was maintained as neat and trim as any naval vessel.

Joe counted the number of steps as he climbed; 22 from the bottom grating to the jute covered platform at the top at the ship’s main deck. He stepped off the fiber covered square mat and onto the steel deck plating. That deck looked as if it had only recently been painted. The gray enamel-like paint sparkled in spite of the fact that longshoremen had been treading constantly on it day after day as they hurried about, loading cargo. Joe looked at that superbly clean deck and wondered if the deck crew had to scrub that deck each night. He thought his mother would say it looked clean enough to eat off. He grinned at the thought. Looking aft, he spotted a sailor standing beneath a taut canvas awning stretched between the deckhouse and the rail. The man was staring at him so he walked toward the fellow, assuming he must be the deck watch. As he approached the sailor he noticed the questioning look on the man’s face. Mister Oki? Joe asked hesitatingly.

The sailor just stared for a moment, and then, in a hoarse but respectful voice, said, Ah so. Okisan. Hi, hi. He made a stiff half-bow, then turned and started toward the stern of the vessel. After three steps, he paused, looked back and glanced meaningfully at Joe, nodded twice, then resumed his course aft as Joe followed. The sailor-escort turned at the end of the deckhouse and rapped on a varnished wooden door. A moment later a muffled voice rattled off something in Japanese, and the sailor immediately opened the door, stepped to the side and motioned for Joe to enter.

As he stepped over the low threshold, Joe blinked his eyes, trying to accustom them to the dim light, and sniffed the air. There was a strong scent of sandalwood incense on the air and he found the aroma excitingly pleasing. After a few moments he began to discern the shape of objects in the room. He made out things like the shelves that lined the side walls—shelves containing all kinds of electronic equipment. The room was a veritable wonderland of dials, knobs, switches, meters, wires, and connectors, and other mysterious, marvelous things.

Welcome to my humble workshop, Joesan, Takeo’s voice said from across the open space. These are my living and working quarters.

Joe strained his eyes to peer into the dim corner and was barely able to make of the shape of the man seated at a large desk. Takeo was sitting in a swivel chair, a set of earphones on his head, his right hand poised above a telegraph key secured to the desktop. His left hand was held high, palm facing Joe in a signal of silence and waiting.

Joe watched in awe. He heard a faint chirping sound but nothing else. A minute or two passed, then Takeo flipped a switch on the front of a big crate-like, black box on the desk and his right hand began to move up and down. Joe heard a long series of quick, metallic clicks.

At last Takeo removed the headphones from his ears and dropped them onto the desk. He deftly flicked a few switches then twisted the chair around to face his guest. Well, my young friend, what do you think of my radio shack? he asked, waving his hand in an arc that encompassed the entire room.

Gosh! I don’t know, Joe stammered. Swell, I guess. I’ve never seen so much radio stuff, not even in a store. How come you call it a shack? Looks like a science lab to me. Uh, uh, what were you doing when I came in? You know, with that thing on your desk? He pointed to the telegraph key.

Oh, I was talking to my headquarters office back home, asking for sailing instructions. That’s all, Takeo said.

Talkin’? I didn’t hear you say anything. All I heard was some beeps and then some clicks. You didn’t say anything.

The radio man laughed and shook his head. We call it talking, Joesan, he explained, even though we’re actually using the telegrapher’s key and sending Morse Code. Come over here and I’ll show you. He beckoned with one hand.

Joe approached the desk shyly as if afraid he might do something wrong.

Takeo held the headphones so that the little speakers were near Joe’s ears, then he flipped a switch on the panel of the radio receiver. A string of cheeps came out of the speakers. Hear that? he asked. When Joe nodded and smiled, he said, That’s a ship somewhere out on the ocean talking to a shore station up in New York.

Yeah? How can you tell? Sounds just like a bunch of biddies callin’ their mother hen to me.

Again Takeo laughed. That’s exactly what it sounds like sometimes, Joe, he said through his chuckles. But, you see, all licensed radio stations are assigned call signs. You know, just like the commercial broadcast stations you listen to on your living room set? Well, my ship’s call is J-A-K-M and my amateur call is J-4-O-K-I. Wherever I am, whenever I hear either of those calls, I know someone is trying to get in touch with me. He peered intently at Joe’s frowning face for a moment, then asked, Do you understand?

Welllll, kind of, I guess, Joe hesitated. Then a wide grin spread across his face. You mean like WLW in Cincinatti, and WBT in Charlotte, and WCSC in Charleston?

Exactly! Takeo exclaimed Now, if you were an amateur radio operator, a ham, your call would begin with a W or a K for the United States and, since you live in the southeastern part of your country, you would have a 4 in your call just like I do. The US is divided into 10 areas and the southeast is district 4. He studied Joe’s face like a school teacher explaining a difficult problem to an interested but questioning student.

But, but, but do you mean you were really talking to some one in Japan when I came into the room? All that way? Half way ’round the world?

Yes, indeed. We do that all the time, the ship’s radio officer explained with a shrug of his shoulders as he continued, Well, most of the time. There are days when atmospheric conditions cause problems. You know how storms can give you a lot of static when you’re trying to listen to your favorite radio programs?

Gosh! All the way to Japan. How long did it take you to learn all the stuff? All the things you need to know to be a radio officer? Joe shook his head in disbelief. And how much does all this equipment cost? Must cost an awful lot of money. Do you have a set-up like this at home? A fellow would have to be pretty rich to buy all this stuff, He waved his hand in an arc toward the equipment on the shelves as he rattled off the questions.

You’re absolutely right, Joe. It would indeed cost a great deal of money to purchase all this equipment. Luckily the shipping company can afford it. I couldn’t. But an amateur radio operator doesn’t need all this. As long as he had some source of electrical power, he could get along with just a receiver and a transmitter. Well, of course, he’d need an adequate antenna/ground system too. Why, a fellow could probably build himself a very nice station for a lot less than you’d think, probably not more than a few dollars. I did. I assembled all my equipment while I was at college in California and it didn’t cost me very much at all.

You mean you got this swell job on this great ship just because you know that beep-beep stuff? Joe was incredulous.

That and a bit more, Takeo replied as he turned off the switch on the receiver. We don’t call them beep-beeps my dear young friend, although I must admit that they probably do sound like that to the uninitiated. We call the short beeps ‘dits’, and the long ones ‘dahs’, Joe. Now take your name for instance. In International Morse Code, your name would be dit-dah-dah-dah, dah-dah-dah, dit. That’s J—O—E. See how easy it is?

Yeah. Sure. I guess. That is, it sounds easy when you go slow like that, but the stuff I heard, those beep-beeps, was a whole lot faster than that. How did you ever learn to get it so fast?

Well, Joesan, it’s just a matter of practice. We all start out at a slow rate, Takeo said sympathetically, but, in time, with lots of practice, you get pretty fast. At first you write down each letter as you decipher it, but after a while you can copy it in your head just like hearing an announcer speak over your commercial radio station. Most good maritime radio operators can copy 25 to 40 words per minute, I’d say. You see, we count five letters as a word. So a good op—that’s what we call radiomen—good ops can read about 125 to 200 letters a minute. They kind of read words rather than individual letters, you see. Some of the Morse letters are just one dit or dah, like E and T, others are five or six dits and dahs for numerals and punctuation marks.

Wow! And you had to learn all that stuff? Joe shook his head from side to side. How fast can you do it, Takeo? I’ll bet you’re pretty fast.

I’ve never really timed myself, Joe, but I imagine I can do maybe 35 or 40 words per minute, if I’m hard pressed. Takeo leaned back in his swivel chair, smiled and let his eyes concentrate on the white painted ceiling.

"Gee! I’ll bet it’s a