Anopheles: A World War II Tale

Final Scene

A frigid grey sky hung over the Atlantic, the ocean surface was a constant ebb and flow, whitecaps rocking up and down in a pulsing rhythm.  A slick of oil skimmed the surface along with bits and pieces of  wooden debris.  From the opaque sky drifted a sea gull, swooping down it took rest on one of the larger scored planks, the bird pecked at the edges.  The letters A-N-O-P-H decorated most of the broken timber.  Finding the landing place to offer little nutrition or interest the bird flew off, navigating closer to the coast.  It's keen eyes scanned the water's surface.  A glint of silver could mean a fish, a discarded tin, or a piece of a recently demolished ship.

Another object of interest attracted the gulls attention.  It began a downward spiral, coming to land on a large empty gas drum.  Pecking at the surface emitted a loud thrum.  The face of a man, drew the birds attention, he cried out with a skaw, spreading out his wings, and backing off a step.  This was not the place a human should be expected.  Two large brown eyes stared at him, the mouth panted and spat out water, teeth chattering.  Amos's aching fingers were grasping either end of the drum.

He had been praying for help, he couldn't see that this gull was going to be his salvation.  He kicked his feet, holding fast to the drum.  He could see the defused light from the west was dimming, a night of cold was his future.  He was unsure that he could sustain himself through the long hours of cold and dark.  Kick, kicking was the only thing he could do.  That and thinking.  He thought about Anopheles and Frank, attaching the gasoline drum to the hatch, jumping to the other side of the submarine, away from the schooner and swimming as hard as he could.  Then there was the explosion, something went wrong with the sub.  His intent was to flood a portion of the boat, slow its escape, not to destroy it.  When Amos turned at the erupting sound he saw Anopheles rising into the air and splintering apart.  Oil from the U-boat and broken timbers from the schooner covered the water.

Swimming to where Anopheles had been, there was no sign of Frank.  The gas drum was the only object he found to be of use.  For hours he kicked his feet, hoping he was moving closer to shore.  And he prayed.  Then this bird, useless bird, Amos thought.  He sits there staring at me.  His thoughts turned to his family, his wife Sarah, Amos junior, and Bessie, and now Bessie's daughter Mona.  I can't die like this.  I have my stories.  My collections, of birds, and animals, cloud shapes and sky colors, so many colors.  Babies need to have a grandpa telling them stories.  Amos couldn't tell if those were tears or salt water burning his eyes.  He kicked, he had to get back to Charleston and his family.

Night came on with subtle variations muting from grey and then to black.  The ocean swells continued the unending rise and fall, and the strong chop.  At times Amos could feel that he was being twisted further out to sea.  He had to let his intuition and sea sense take control, steering him to land, not to the ocean depths.  Kicking, unending kicking.

The gull's wings flapped with a woosh, bringing Amos's face up from the water.  He knew it was dangerous, resting, that way.  His neck ached, he ached all over.  His body wanted to let go, relax, float on the undulating ocean, but he knew better, letting go would be the end.  Then he remembered the noise, his helper had abandoned him, some help!  The coast and sky ahead was a ribbon of darkness.  Behind, to the east, he could sense that the sun was slipping higher, casting a dull yellow glow.  His arm strength was weakening, can't go much longer.  He was alone.

Then he began to hallucinate.  He remembered from the Navy, symptoms of exposure.  The mind falling into crazy dreams.  In a haze his thoughts were drawn to the Gullah folks, singing, dancing, and the food.  Most of all he heard Gullah voices telling family stories, Barrier Island genealogies.  The aching in his arms had become unbearable, he put his face down and wept.  He was going to slip into the water, the cold would accept him and pull him down to his final place of rest.

His head began to buzz, he felt a vortex pulling him down into the dark, mindless cold.  Then he was being tossed about, pulled at, and strange voices shouting, "Amos, Cousin Amos.  What you do'in out her floatin' in this big ocean with that ol' noisy sea bird." They laid their cousin back in the shallow hold, covering him with their heavy jackets.  Amos looked around to see his Gullah family, warm smiling faces, and out on the water he could see the gas drum floating away, and the bird returning to lite upon it with a Skaw.

Anopheles: A World War II Tale

Chapter 1

Frank Harper came awake with the slapping of the halyard against the main mast. He tasted the sourness of his mouth and batted at an intrusive fly. The day was starting as poorly as yesterday had ended for the skipper of the derelict coastal cruiser, Anopheles. The gaff rigged schooner bobbed on oil-slicked waters between the South Carolina coast and some nameless barrier island. He reached up to the boom, pulling himself to his feet, his joints, popped and creaked with the effort. The Captain, as he termed himself, scratched at his bare chest, and fumbled in the debris-strewn cockpit. Where's that damn bottle. He picked his way through empty oil cans, discarded cigarette packs, and partially consumed tins of tuna and baked beans. Old Grand-dad where are ya? He kicked at the litter and swore, "God damn mess!" grabbing a backstay he eased himself down, sitting on the cockpit locker, he felt the sun beating down on the mangrove canopy above. It would be another hot day. His head hung low between his knees, he shook his thatch of grey hair, "Take me now God, know your going to send me below anyways." He rasped out the words. "No man deserves damnation more than me. Can't git much lower than this. No Grand-dad, can't go on without Grand-dad." He rubbed the back of his hand across dry lips.

Frank and Anopheles plied the waters of the South Carolina and Georgia Intracoastal Waterway, carrying supplies to small unserved towns and villages on the barrier islands. When favorable winds blew he saved his fuel, when they didn't he relied on his balky, diesel consuming engine. The Captain glared at his tattered flag, Old Glory fluttered at the occasional passing breeze.  With an empty cargo hold he could not afford the expense of running the engine, with no wind he was going to drift with the currents and rot in the devils own hotbox. And he with no whiskey to ease his thirst.

The Captain pulled a plug of tobacco from his back pocket, using his teeth he chawed off an edge and returned it to its place of hiding. "Ain't gonna git to Savannah by just sittin' here." Frank moved forward to the main-mast where he began hauling up the sail. He grunted on each pull, his back muscles straining at the effort. Amos Cole his mate usually handled the rigging, but the birth of a grandchild had taken Amos off to Charleston. Family causes no end of problems. He spat off into the channel. A bachelor, relations were a hindrance to him. It was only because of his mate's skills, and his willingness to endure Frank's humiliations that he was kept on. "Family!" Frank shook his head, and heaved again at the weight of the main-sail.

The sail filled, and fell with the weak winds. Scanning the sky to the East, out over the island there was blue sky and a scud of cloud along the horizon. "It's early, 'bout noon might get some real wind." He set the wheel and went below. In the dark he found his way to the box of provisions, tuna and baked beans, no need to heat, spoon out of the can. He began grumbling as he hunted around some more, just hoping that he would find a bottle of misplaced whiskey, Old Grand-dad was strong and cheep, just the way he liked his.

Back in the cockpit, he opened the can of beans. Out on the water there was no concern with social miscues, not that Frank was hindered by such niceties. Now Amos would comment on the Captain's explosive gusts of wind, saying that they could carry the Anopheles to Savannah and halfway back again.  He rested his back against the cabin, shaded from the sun, spooning out the last bit of beans and the sweet brown syrup.

Standing he stretched at his muscles , he thought of bending over to take care of his back, but the last time he did that he was laid up for a week.  Out here without Amos he could die waiting for a waterman or a Gullah, better a waterman.  Frank had a way of offending the local Gullahs.  A steady breeze filled his sail,  now we can get underway.  He tightened up on the main, and went forward to raise the fore-sail and jib.  Returning to the cockpit The Captain tightened the lines, the sails filled, and the Anopheles sent a spew of white foam aft as she cut through the water.  He liked the feel of being under sail, the firmness of the wheel, and the billowing of the sails.           

Couple hours I'll be in Savannah.  Frank would fill his hold with supplies.  Village stores and town markets needed fresh produce and packaged goods.  Gullah towns ordered up special items, black beans, salted mackerel, and pecans.  There was always the person needing a worn part for their truck or the windmill.  And so it went back and forth between Charleston and Savannah, filling orders and getting requests for the next pass through.

The Anopheles sat low in the water below the Savannah warehouse, her hold was filled and Frank was itching to return north to Charleston.  Night would be coming on, only a few more hours of wind, enough for sailing.  Then I'll use that infernal engine and waste money.

Frank would navigate the Savannah channel as far as the Mud River, then head over to Turtle Island, finding a place to overnight about midnight.  That, if all went well.  It didn't.  Half way down the Mud River a storm blew in, Anopheles was battered by heavy winds and rain.  Frank lowered the sails and cranked up the diesel engine, it sputtered, and belched, refusing to turnover.  All the while the Captain thought over the many maintenance items he had failed to do with this vile, stuttering contraption.  He growled at, and along with the engine, Amos had bin here woulda got done.  One more effort and it took.  The motor thumped, and throbbed and at last took on something that sounded of rhythmic pulsations.

Under power the Captain of the Anopheles had better control of his vessel, It was still a battle with wind and rain, but attempting to tack through narrow channels in the dark was near to imposable.  Holding fast to the wheel he kept to the middle of the river, hoping that he would avoid sandbars or tree snags that could pull him to the bottom.

It was about midnight the wind subsided.  Frank could relax a bit, he still had the darkness and rain to contend with, and those snags.  He needed a place to layover for the night, he was getting tired, and tiredness could lead to mistakes.  He was wearing out his neck looking from one side of the river to the other, and peering ahead into blackness.  Out of nowhere hands were grabbing at him, he was being pulled from the boat.  His hands grasped the wheel, but the hands were too strong.  Just as he was going into the river he caught hold of the side rail, he ducked down freeing himself from the alien, and clawed his way aboard.  His chest heaved, he sucked in air, and pulled leaves and twigs from his hair.  He steered the boat away from the bank, and the overhanging trees.  Wake up you fool, he chided himself.  He whistled, he stomped his feet and he thought about what to do with Amos if he returned.

His head snapped up, he was drifting off to sleep again.  He slapped at his face and adjusted the throttle; anything to keep him awake. Ahead he could see a dim light come through the drizzle, "Gonzo's, I'll tie-up and get some sleep." A single light hung from a post at the end of the fuel dock, a curtain of rain angled-off across the cone of light cast below.

He cut the engine and let the Anopheles coast up to the dock.  Bang!  He went in too fast.  Gonzales would be mad as hell if he heard this assault on his property. Don't need no ol' Cubano gettin' on my ass, taking a looped line he lassoed a cleat and fastened it to the dock. He scanned his boat, pulled off his water soaked t-shirt tossing it on the deck and headed below. Clothing, magazines, and gear were pushed aside as he fell into the birth.  The Captain wouldn't hear the water lapping at the hull or the rain drumming on the transom (?), sleep overtook him immediately.

"Frank Harper! Frank Harper, is that your no-good-for-nothing ass down there?" Through bloodshot eyes all Frank could see was a massive shadow blocking the hatchway. But he knew the voice to be that of Gonzo, Enrique Gonzales. And why is he waking me so damn early.

"Go away you crazy Cuban. I was up all night."

"And you ran into my dock...should go get my gun and sink this old scow and you in it." Gonzo kicked at the refuse in the cockpit and mumbled as he stepped onto the dock, "Be concerned with all his rats coming ashore and attacking me." He shivered at the thought, and Frank supplied the food and goods sold in his small store, that and black-market fuel when supply was lean.

Frank hauled cargo from the boats hold up to a cart on the dock.  His back was pulsating as the last sack of rice was tossed atop the other supplies. The sun beat on his back, thin strips of sinew stretched and torqued below his brown skin  as the cart was pushed up the dock, wheels bouncing and the load shifting. He would stop, push, and pull to keep the load straight, didn't need to have a spill in the water, and lose income. This was Amos' work. Last time I'll let him off. The cart was pushed up a short ramp and into the store. "Where's Amos? I see you working for once, Amos run off on you. He finally have enough of your mouth."

"Amos knows when he's got a good job...an' he's like a brother to me."

Gonzo laughed. "Yeah, and that's why I never seen you with family."

"Amos' daughter is having a kid. First grandkid, an' wasn't bout to miss out." Frank spat out the window into the woods. "If he wasn't like my brother I woulda let 'im go."

"Last night I heard a tanker was torpedoed off Quincy Island. You see anything coming up?"

"Huh. Yeah, don't know the island, but lotta oil. Amos knows the islands, names who lives there, who lived there hundred years ago." Frank didn't understand the use for all those names and dates, who was married to who. Relatives.  He spat out the window.  His navigation charts got him where he needed to go.

"This damn war is gett'n to be a problem ration'n whiskey, tabacca and fuel, how's a guy sposed to make a living, have a little fun."

The shopkeeper shook his head. There was no reasoning with Captain Frank when he got into his rant about how the war was an inconvenience to his life. Gonzo thought about the men that died on the merchant tanker, the inconveniences this would mean for their families and friends.

"You better watch out for those German U-boats. Had fishermen in, said they've seen periscopes, even one said he saw a submarine diving out in the deep water off Tybee Island.

Frank chewed on that. Tybee, I got no reason to be out in the deep water, 'specialy not around Tybee. "I stay inside the islands, I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout." Frank pulled at his belt, and walked down the dock to his boat. Damn war ain't doin' me no good. If Frank made money off the war, if it didn't get in his way it would be okay. But with rationing, military inspections of boat traffic, and limitation on where he could go and when, just rubbed his independent soul the wrong way. He spat in the water and castoff.