Chapter Two Chief Mate Kevin Riggs
Chapter Two
Chief Mate Kevin Riggs
Four days until the Oceanus is torpedoed
Port of Spain, Trinidad
Passage through the calm waters of the Gulf of Paria into Port of Spain had been smooth and uneventful. With no U-boats, no mines, no trouble, the Oceanus had arrived in port at sunset yesterday.
He had slept a few hours last night, falling into his bunk only when the ship reached the dock.
He woke at 5:00 a.m. to shave and dress in a freshly pressed uniform that he reserved for the days when new passengers boarded.
First impressions mattered. Passengers needed to feel that their captain’s top enlisted man was up for the job.
He was born in Currituck County, North Carolina, in 1920.
His father, a coast guardsman and fisherman, often joked that the boy’s mother had plucked him from the Atlantic when he was seconds old.
Covered in sand, seaweed, and brine, the infant child was said to be clutching a conch shell and wailing so loud the wild horses of Currituck County came to investigate the creature.
He often said he didn’t know where the Atlantic Ocean ended and he began. The water had not only birthed him but nourished him.
Though he’d been up for hours, his passengers maintained a different schedule.
Most who’d boarded in Cape Town, South Africa, were either still sleeping, dressing, or making their way to the dining hall for a late breakfast. Because they were in harbor, he’d allowed his passengers to go ashore last night to visit the cafés and restaurants.
At sea, his passengers would have to maintain quiet, because sound attracted the U-boats like blood drew sharks.
Though he’d been tempted to stroll dry land, he’d stayed on the Oceanus, given that they were now at war.
For those who’d stayed on board last night, festivities in the dining room had gone late.
A young opera singer traveling from Cape Town had been in fine form, and her soprano voice had captivated those in the dining room.
He’d wanted to end the festivities, but the captain had allowed them to continue.
Once the ship was out of port, evening activities would be reduced to cards, games, and political talk of the war.
Until this past winter, Port of Spain had been untouched by the war raging in Europe.
And then, two months ago, a U-boat had entered the harbor and sunk a half dozen ships.
The midnight attack had sent flames soaring into the night sky, illuminating the lighthouse and harbormaster’s tower.
The waterfront danced with a demonic light as the U-boat evaporated back into the Caribbean.
As lovely as the singer’s voice was, he’d worried the sound could attract another U-boat. So, he’d remained on deck, scanning for signs of ripple patterns in the water or U-boat periscopes.
As the singer glided into the high notes of La traviata, he thought of the vessels lost in the Atlantic in the last four weeks.
The tanker Dixie Arrow had been sunk off the North Carolina coast by a German U-boat twenty-five days ago.
Five days later, the same submarine had sunk a tanker called the San Gerardo southeast of New York City.
He’d known men who’d served on both ships.
They’d crossed paths in ports, and they’d drunk and laughed together.
Nearly eighty vessels and twelve hundred souls had gone missing in the waters off the Outer Banks since January.
And now he was about to sail into those same waters.
The once-untouched US coastline of his boyhood was now littered with shattered lifeboats, spewed oil, and human remains.
Mariners had always been wary of the North Carolina coast because of its fickle, ever-changing shoals that routinely fooled impatient captains rushing through its shifting underwater channels.
Now berthed at Queen’s Wharf, he enjoyed this tentative moment of safety as he stared out over Port of Spain’s busy waterfront.
Loud rattling cranes worked methodically along the docks, loading supplies destined for Allied forces.
Nearby, warehouses buzzed with longshoremen moving crates of food, ammunition, and military equipment.
Honking car horns blended with the metallic whir of an electric streetcar skimming along its tracks on Dock Road.
Palm trees swayed in a warm breeze and carried the scent of diesel from the new fuel depots and the rain leaking from plumping dark clouds hovering over the mountains ringing the harbor.
The United States was arming the shipping convoys now vital to the survival of the Allies. US soldiers were encamped on the island’s eastern shore in the newly constructed US naval base.
No part of this earth was immune to the war raging in Europe and the Pacific.
Today, the Oceanus would return to the perilous sea, infested with German U-boat subs, or wolf packs, prowling the waters.
Most vessels now traveled in convoys, hoping their numbers would save them.
The Oceanus had been delayed from Cape Town due to a storm off Africa, and they’d missed the last convoy.
But in his mind, these slow-moving maritime caravans were sitting ducks.
The Oceanus would use her fast engines to outrun any trouble.
Marine Square, the center of town, was a few blocks to his right.
Palm trees, arched walkways, decorative wrought iron railings, and stucco facades with shuttered windows hinted at the city’s Spanish and Georgian roots.
Shops, hotels, and bars served all manner of people—dark-skinned Trinidadians and uniformed US and British soldiers.
Life carried on here, even as blackout curtains lined tall windows and harbor patrol boats scanned for enemy activity.
As the chief mate, he oversaw all the daily duties required to keep the ship moving.
The captain had given him a list of the twelve passengers who would be boarding soon.
Like this city, they were a melting pot of nationalities.
Some were European, two were from the United States, and the others were from South America.
They’d pass through the customs warehouse before being allowed to board.
A flicker of sparking chrome caught his attention as a Ford Packard parked by the gangplank.
The back door opened, and a man dressed in a white linen suit and a fedora emerged.
He was tall and well proportioned, and he had the look of a man accustomed to travel.
He reached into the back seat and took a lady’s gloved hand.
Seconds later a tall, slender woman appeared.
She was wearing a sapphire-blue dress that hugged full breasts and gently rounded hips, and she rose out of the vehicle like a siren from the water.
As she looked up toward the ship, he caught the long line of a pale neck.
She moved easily in black high-heeled shoes that elongated slim legs.
The man was Mr. William Weller, a US industrialist, rumored to have helped arm the Nazis during the 1930s. With the United States now in the war, Mr. Weller was wise to have left Europe.
The woman, according to the manifest, was Sigrid Stein, an Austrian by birth. Her profession was listed as “actress” on the ship’s passenger manifest. She wore diamond earrings that captured the sunlight. A half dozen ivory buttons trailed up each cuff and along the front of her jacket.
Weller had an attentive gaze as he took Miss Stein’s elbow. He kept her close at hand. A few passing US sailors paused to admire her beauty. Mr. Weller escorted Miss Stein up the gangplank.
Adjusting his uniform, Chief Mate Riggs moved to the entryway so he could greet them. “Welcome aboard the Oceanus. Mr. Weller and Miss Stein, I presume.”
“That’s correct,” Mr. Weller said.
Miss Stein stayed close to Weller, her shoulder touching his as if he were her anchor. This close, Chief Mate Riggs had to appreciate her beauty. Jet-black hair, smooth pale skin, blue eyes, and cherry red lips were hard to ignore. Like the mythic sirens he feared brought bad luck.
“I’ll have a seaman escort you to your cabin.” The ship had second-class and third-class suites. Weller’s cabin was one of the largest the ship offered. And it was one of the last available.
“Excellent. And my bags and crates are being loaded?” Mr. Weller said.
“As we speak.”
“Can I inspect them before we set sail?”
Riggs’s weakness was impatience, but a stoic stare hid it. “It’s not customary, but it can be arranged. Say in one hour?”
“That will suit,” Mr. Weller said.
Miss Stein nodded graciously to Riggs. The couple followed the apprentice seaman below deck.
“Thank you.” The chief mate watched other passengers approaching the gangplank.
Most were neatly, if not modestly, dressed, and all had tight expressions pinched with worry and fear.
He guessed their need to reach the United States outweighed any concerns about the dangerous, dark waters ahead.
Europe meant certain death for many now.
But there was a chance the U-boats patrolling the oceans would spare them all.
An older man dressed in a ship’s officer’s uniform approached. The man was Captain Joseph Stoddard. The captain had served with the US Navy in the North Atlantic when he was younger and had joined the shipping company a decade ago.
“Chief Mate Riggs,” Stoddard said. “Lovely day.”
“Captain.” The seaman raised his face to the sun. “It’s beautiful.”
“How is Seaman Hanson?” the captain asked. “He still in clinic?”
“No, sent him back to his room this morning with extra aspirin. I suspect the headaches were caused by rum rather than an ailment.”
“No time for that when we cross the Atlantic. I need all my men in top form.”
“Understood.”
Stoddard let the matter drop.
“The radios are quiet today. No sightings outside the harbor,” Chief Mate Riggs commented.
“Good.” A frown deepened the lines of Stoddard’s sun-etched face.
“It’s the trouble I don’t see that always worries me,” the chief mate replied.
“We’ll be riding low in the water, and we’re the kind of vessel a sea wolf likes to devour.”
The Oceanus was a 452-foot-long passenger freighter now laden with South African chrome ore that was destined for the manufacturing of stainless steel, as well as wood, hides, and asbestos.
On board were forty-four civilians and eighty-eight crew members.
Riggs knew as well as the captain did that the Germans weren’t hunting ships as much as tonnage.
And sinking this vessel would earn a submarine captain eight thousand pounds of spoils.
“What about activity near the US coast?” the captain asked.
“Calm, but by the time we arrive, that information will be old news.”
“Correct.”
As he turned, a horse-drawn carriage arrived by the gangplank.
In Trinidad, it was as common to see horse conveyances as automobiles.
Left to its own devices, Trinidad would have remained trapped in the last century.
But its prime coastal location had dragged it into modern warfare, no matter its slower pace.
The driver, a dark-skinned man wearing a worn suit, climbed down from the cart to help his passenger.
She was a very pregnant woman, her rounded belly making the chief mate wonder if he could sail this vessel fast enough before she gave birth.
She eased to the street and accepted a small suitcase from the driver.
“Better keep a close eye on that one,” Captain Stoddard said. “I’m not anxious to become a nursemaid.”
Riggs smiled, despite having similar concerns. “The manifest lists a doctor on board. A Dr. Brooks?”
“That’s right. But he’s a book dealer, isn’t he?”
“He is.”
“If it’s all the same, I don’t want that baby born on my ship.”
“Should I issue an order to the child, sir?” Chief Mate Riggs asked.
Captain Stoddard stifled a grin. “Been my experience, women and babies have minds of their own.”
“Fingers crossed that she’ll make it to a proper hospital in New York.”