“Why?” Washington asked, his eyebrows furrowing.
Crocky looked down at the water. “Why? You don’t think I want to have to do all this myself, do you?”
Washington grinned. “Here I was beginning to think of you like my father.”
“I thought you said your father ran away when you was a kid.”
“He did; the bastard.”
They laughed. “You know, boy, you gotta mouth on you that gonna git you killed one day.”
“I won’t reach Kingdom alone. Old Saint Peter is goin’ to want to know why I brought a parade with me.”
Crocky laughed, but he stopped stirring and looked at the young man. He had heard that tone many times in his sixteen years. He heard it in ’40 when he joined, sixteen years ago. He heard it through World War II, but a lot less than after the war. “When you’re fightin’ for yore life, there ain’t no color barrier.”
“You’re right there.”
“Right where? What you talking ’bout, boy?”
“You said, ‘When you’re fightin’ for yore life, there ain’t no color barrier.’ ”
“Sometimes, Washington, us veterans of the war think out loud. It don’t mean it has anything whatsoever to have to do with you.”
“You keep yore blade where it belongs — outta sight.” He stirred some more. “There, I think it’s about the right temperature.” He looked at Washington, seeing both fear and anger in the eyes. How many times over his life in the Navy had he seen the same emotions? There was a time when they were his emotions. “I’ll see what I can do about Potts. Every boat has a Potts. Most times, they disappear quick. Potts been on board long enough that his rep for bad liberty and beating up people should be known to the bosses.”
“The COB ain’t gonna do anythin’.” Washington stood there cradling the salt container. “I’m the only one who can make sure he stops.”
“Who said I was gonna talk to Boohan? I didn’t say I was gonna talk to the chief of the boat; that’s what you said, so don’t go tellin’ people ole Crocky is runnin’ his mouth to the COB.”
“Well, who else you gonna tell? We don’t have a chaplain on board, and if we did, he’d be white.”
“Washington, don’t be an asshole. The world is tough enough without another asshole in it. Let Potts and his assholes have their world and we’ll have ours.” He pointed to the huge bowl of peeled potatoes on the nearby shelf. “Hand me that salt and slide those taters over here. This water is quickenin’ to boil, so we gonna shave these potatoes and surprise the crew.”
“Why? They never had potatoes before?” Washington asked with a laugh.
Crocky shook his head. “Don’t give up yore day job, boy. A stand- up you ain’t.”
Washington passed the salt to Crocky. Bending down, he gripped the handle on one side of the huge polished bowl filled above the brim with peeled potatoes. Grunting, he slid it across the few feet of deck so it was a few inches from the boiling water.
“Yeah, how you gonna handle someone like Potts if a few pounds of potatoes make you grunt?”
“In Philly, we fight to win.”
“You never win in a fight in the Navy. All it does it starts a new one, and when everyone’s head comes up for a breath, you discover yores is in the brig.”
“Okay, Crocky. I can handle it. Don’t mean I like it, but let’s see what your friend the COB can do.”
“That’s better,” Crocky said, nodding. “Wait a minute! I ain’t gonna talk to Boohan, so you can just quit that. I have my one way of takin’ care of things.” He pointed to the drawers near the shelf area. “Now go grab us a couple of knives. Don’t get sharp ones. With your razor humor and quick wit—”
“Whackin’ wit.”
“A good whackin’ is what ya git if you screw with the white boys. The skipper is a good man, but even good men can be forced to do things they don’t wanna do because of good order and discipline. Don’t think bein’ in the right makes one innocent in the Navy. All it does is make you sit alongside the guilty ones in the brig.”
“If he calls me a n—”
Crocky held up his hand. “President Truman has taken care of that. Leave this to me.” He didn’t mention that he had already talked with Lieutenant Bleecker. Only three of them on the boat who were World War II veterans, and he was one of them. Crocky lifted the salt, unscrewed the lid, and grabbed a handful of salt. He dumped the salt unceremoniously into the slow-boiling water. Two more handfuls followed. “There; that should be enough.”
Washington squatted and lifted the knife. He ran his finger along the blade. “These knives are pretty good for government issue.”
“And they gonna stay that way.” Crocky screwed the lid back onto the salt container and set it down on a nearby carving table.
Washington stopped and looked up. “Well, I ain’t gonna take much more, Crocky. This Potts needs to learn some respect. I’m gonna teach him.”
“What you gonna do, Petty Officer Third Class Steward’s Mate Washington, is keep yore lips shut and yore hands beside yore sides.”
“Like this?” Washington said, standing up and slapping both arms rigid alongside.
“Without the fists.”
Washington relaxed. “But my fists is what I’m gonna need.”
“All you need to learn is patience. Patience is how we get things done in the Navy. We don’t gotta knock down every fence in our way. Some of those fences we climb over; some we walk around; some even we can repaint and make them ours before those who put them up discover they were even there.” He lifted the giant metal spoon from the boiling water and knocked it twice on the side of the pot.
“But we can’t knock down everything that stands in our way. Hand me that knife.” Taking the knife from Washington, Crocky grabbed a potato and with several quick slices sent potato pieces into the water. “Otherwise we’ll be just like that potato: one moment whole and happy, the next all cut up and in boiling water besides.”
Washington grabbed a potato and started slicing. “You think that potato was happy before it had its skin peeled off?”
“What you mean, boy? ‘Skin peeled off.’ Potatoes don’t feel anythin’. You just be careful, and — believe me, I know how hard it is — keep yore anger bottled up.”
“You might be right.”
“I know I’m right. I been in this man’s Navy for over sixteen years. I fought every day of the war and look at me: I’m a first class petty officer. Ain’t many colored can say they made first class. Why? Who knows? I might retire as a chief.” A handful of sliced potatoes followed his words into the pot. “But I’m one who done it.” He waved his knife around the galley, pointing over the counter to the six bolted-down tables on the other side. “This is my kingdom, and I’m tellin’ you, this kingdom is much better than the cotton mill in Georgia I left to go off to war.” Washington pulled a chair over and sat down.
“What you doin’?”
“I’m sittin’ down.”
Crocky reached over and slapped him upside the ear. “Yore momma teach you any manners? Have some respect for your elders. Go get me a chair.”
Washington walked around the edge of the counter to where the chairs were pushed under the tables and grabbed one. Behind him, the nemesis he had talked about moments before walked into the mess. Accompanying the huge man from Ohio was the smaller Fromley. Fromley was the audience Potts took everywhere with him.
“Well, well, looks as if the new nigra has found his niche in life,” Potts said.