Tin Can Down: The Outrageous Exploits of Mickey Michigan and Sunshine McGee

By Max Blue

In racially tense 1952, an unlikely pair, a white and a black, team up in Navy boot camp to strike it rich. "Mickey Michigan" a phenomenally lucky poker player, and his cohort, "Sunshine" McGee, proceed to take hundreds of poor enlisted saps for thousands of hard-earned dollars. But not without incurring an enemy dead-set on revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781882383429

Book preview

Jailed

— CHAPTER ONE —

Mickey Michigan and Sunshine Mcgee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the pole, God only knows.

Hank McGee smiled and leaned back in his coach car seat on the Memphis Express speeding toward Chicago and his destination, the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, north of the great city. He was reading from the Collected Poems of Robert Service, a book his Uncle Sam had given him just before he boarded the train in Memphis. And yes, Hank really did have an Uncle named Sam. Uncle Sam gave him the book with instructions to read The Cremation of Sam McGee, starting on page 33. Hank promised his Uncle Sam that he would do that. He also promised that he would not take any wooden nickels.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code, Hank read.

Hank, along with his God, knew why he was leaving Tennessee to join the Navy; there were many reasons. First, because his Uncle Sam had served on Navy combat vessels in the recently ended World War II and had excited him with tales of seaborne glory. Next, the slogan JOIN THE NAVY AND SEE THE WORLD seemed like it was written just for him. Hank had never seen an ocean and he was tired of school, ready to see for himself the wonders of the vast new world he had read so much about; and then there was the universal military training law. He was nearing draft age and here in 1952, newspaper accounts of U.S. Army losses in the frigid hills of Korea filled him with a morbid dread. A former high school football teammate had returned from the Korean War missing a leg. Hank had been a linebacker on that team, powerfully built and solid as a brick wall. Hank did not shy away from physical confrontation, he just feared the type of artillery barrage he had seen in movie newsreels and that had cost his friend a leg.

And what about his home life? It was awful; the endless alcoholic bickering and worse between his mother and stepfather was sometimes frightening, often terrifying. It was time he got out.

But topping everything was the hope of escaping racial discrimination. Hank had reached a tipping point; the burden of being treated as a second class citizen was more and more intolerable. He thought God would understand.

President Truman had desegregated the Armed Forces only four years earlier in 1948, and with the U.S. leading the United Nations in confronting Communist aggression in Korea, Hank seized the dual opportunities to escape Southern bigotry and serve his country at the same time. Hank McGee wanted to be a sailor who didn’t have to sit in the back of the bus.

Hank was stunned by the size of Chicago’s Union Station; the ceiling in the Great Hall was so high your neck got stiff just looking at it. Somebody directed him towards a wide doorway to the outside where he boarded a Navy bus along with a crowd of other recruits, all feeling uncomfortable in their coats and ties. Mostly, nobody had much to say; and then there was Frank Dalton, from Detroit.

Dalton hopped up the two steps at the bus entrance and stopped to look at the forty or so young men, arrayed two to a seat, stretched out before him in two rows separated by a wide center aisle. He began to laugh. Lighten up guys, he loudly exclaimed. You’re not headed for jail. It’s the goddamn Navy. Didn’t they tell you? It’s a great adventure. You’re supposed to have fun. And what’s with the coats and ties? You’re not headed for church. He laughed again to show it wasn’t his intention to make anyone feel bad.

Who are you? somebody called out.

I’m Frank Dalton from Detroit. I’m one of you, but I’m different. I can tell you about the Navy. If it moves, salute, if it don’t move, paint it. He chuckled at his Navy humor.

Dalton was tall and angular, almost gaunt; a shade over six feet tall, no more than 160 pounds. Dark hair combed straight back.

How come you know so much?

Because I’m from Detroit. Dalton laughed again. He took a seat next to Hank McGee as the bus began to roll.

I’m Hank McGee from Tennessee. Hank offered his hand for a shake.

Dalton’s hand was slim and white, with long, thin fingers, in contrast to McGee’s which was coal black with short, thick fingers.

Their eyes met and held as they tested each other’s solid grip.

Hank had the odd feeling he had seen this guy before; He looked and sounded like the movie star, George Raft.

Pleased to meet you, Hank. Frank and Hank, maybe we should be a team.

What do you know about the Navy, Frank? Hank asked.

I was in a reserve unit in Detroit, they taught me a few things. Boot camp is mostly to … he paused, to … to make you stop thinking like a civilian. A chief petty officer in our reserve unit explained it to me. It’s mostly about discipline. In civilian life it hardly exists. In the Navy it’s the basis for everything. There’s something called the chain of command. It begins with the Commander-In-Chief, that’s the President of the United States, POTUS. Right now it’s President Truman. Next comes the CNO, the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral somebody, and so on down the line. There is always somebody you have to answer to. The first thing we’ll find out when we get to the base is who we have to answer to.

His name was Mister Small. He was a boatswain’s mate first class, built along the lines of a bowling ball: short, round, and hard as molded plastic. Mister Small, in his tight-fitting white, so-called undress uniform, with a white cap cocked at a rakish angle on his head, stood before the crew of 75 young American volunteers, formed at attention in two ranks, still in civilian clothes, the rawest of the raw recruits. His job was to prepare them for duty in the fleet. He had 12 weeks to do it.

You are Company 718, and I am your Company Commander. My name is Small and you will call me Mister. Mister Small, he spoke as loudly as his voice would allow; it was gravelly after two years duty yelling at young men. The first thing to learn is discipline. Discipline, discipline, discipline. You will do as you are told with no questions asked. If I say shit, you will squat and strain. Do you understand?

A resounding, Yes, Sir, arose from the ranks.

Mister Small smiled in a grimacing sort of way. They had fallen for his favorite gambit.

Lesson number one: beware of the obvious answer or response. Mister Small then treated them to his next patented move: fake anger. He began to shout as best he could. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. NOT NEVER. NOT NOHOW. NO TALKING IN RANKS WHEN YOU ARE STANDING AT ATTENTION. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Silence from the ranks, except for a truncated response from an instantly embarrassed Hank McGee, who cut his yes, sir short, but not before the yes had popped out of his mouth. Now Mister Small’s anger was real. He pushed though the front rank to confront the flustered Hank and yelled, Are you stupid, Sunshine?

Hank winced at the racial epithet but momentarily was spared further embarrassment when Mister Small noticed that men up and down the ranks were watching him. He backed away from Hank, spun on his heel, and once again took a position of authority facing the men, every single one of them taller than he, ranging from a few inches to as many as twelve inches taller. Mister Small resented his mini stature and did not hesitate, in fact he made it a point, to dole out the dirtiest assignments to the taller men. Being tall was not an advantage if Mister Small was your Company Commander.

YOU’RE ALL STUPID! he shouted. He hated their tallness. He paced back and forth in front of Company 718, giving himself time to cool down. It was bad for his digestion to lose his temper. He took a series of deep breaths. At length he began to speak in a more normal tone of voice. Instead of shouting he spaced his words as a way of emphasizing his serious intent. When — you — are — at — attention — in — ranks — you — do — not — talk — and — you — do — not — turn — your — stupid heads. YOU LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD AND YOU KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS SHUT. He clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his stroll back and forth in front of the now bewildered young men of Company 718 standing at rigid attention. It seemed he had something else to say; at length it came to him. He stopped walking and turned to face the men.

And another thing. Don’t ever call me Mister Short. I may be short, but that ain’t my goddamned name.

Mister Small was a crusty Navy veteran with fifteen years of service, most of it at sea. He had seen much action with the Pacific Fleet in World War Two. He had survived the sinking of the battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor. What he had not seen was Negro sailors serving in any capacity other than steward’s mates. The integrated Navy was a new experience for him and he was having a hard time adjusting. Hank McGee was the first black sailor he had been called on to train. His inclination was to give Hank special treatment; he knew what it was like to be a minority – short in a tall world. So what motivated him to humiliate the kid by calling him Sunshine? He was not a bigot. He had seen Negroes perform heroically in battle. Mister Small was uncertain, possibly confused.

Hank McGee was also uncertain and confused, as were most of the others. After the near disastrous beginning, the 75 men of Company 718 had undergone the well-organized process of casting out what remained of their civilian existence for the well-ordered regimen of apprentice seamen. Civilian clothes were packed up and shipped out, replaced by crisp new uniforms in three styles: Navy blue wool, cotton white, and dungaree dull. Their bodies were assaulted by needles, stethoscopes, and electric shavers. They waded through a sea of human hair as Navy barbers gleefully plowed through civilian curls at breakneck speed, turning out a company of skinheads, many nicked, bleeding, and fitted with funny looking white caps that settled on their ears. They were marched to their barracks and were introduced to a new vocabulary: the floor was a deck, the ceiling was the overhead, the walls were bulkheads, and the door was a hatch. Those were not steps leading up to the barracks entrance; they were a ladder. The bathroom was the head. Left was port, right was starboard. Front and back were forward and aft. They were handed mops, except they were not mops; they were swabs. Welcome to the Navy, Swabbies.

#

Hank McGee and Frank Dalton sat together on the edge of the bunk bed they would share in the upcoming weeks. They both wanted to sleep on top.

We could flip a coin, Hank offered.

Why don’t we alternate? Dalton suggested. A week at a time.

Fair enough, Hank agreed.

So, Sunshine, what do you think of your first day in the Navy? Dalton said it in an offhand manner.

Hank accepted the remark in the spirit he thought it was given – a serious subject addressed in a joking manner.

I thought I could escape it in the Navy, Hank responded.

Dalton sighed. In Detroit the Irish have to fight it. They call us Micks.

At least you don’t have green skin, Hank said. Look at me, Mick, black as mother midnight and judged guilty because of it.

Dalton laughed. Sunshine and Mick, a pair of trumped aces. Bring on the fleet.

Hank shook his head and said, Not Mick. I’ll call you Mickey. Mickey Michigan.

I like it, said Dalton. Mickey Michigan and the Sunshine Kid. Or should it be Sunshine Tennessee? No, it has to be Sunshine McGee from Tennessee.

#

Boot camp went by in a hurry; they marched in ranks everywhere they went. They had a marching competition with four or five other companies. Mister Small wanted, no demanded, Company 718 to be judged best of the lot. There was a drill ground where they practiced every day except Sunday. They marched to the music of John Philip Sousa blasted from an ear-splitting loudspeaker mounted on a pole next to the parade ground. As corny, and trite as it may sound, Mister Small loved to call cadence to the sound-off beat.

You had a good home when you LEFT, he cried,

You’re RIGHT, they yelled.

Sunshine McGee yelled, You’re WRONG, but not loud enough for Mister Small to notice. Sunshine did not have a good home when he left and he couldn’t bring himself to say so even for the sake of cadence count. Those close enough to hear as they marched smiled at the small irreverence. The men were willing to give up their independence for the sake of Navy discipline, but it would be a rare sailor who did not retain a streak of suppressed rebellion. They were after all, Americans, proud citizens of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The drills brought Company 718 together as a well-oiled, well-functioning team under the firm hand of Mister Small. The men were proud to carry the A flag, signifying first place in the weekly competition. The lessons of reliability and responsibility were hammered, and hammered, and hammered. If you have the 0400 watch you will relieve fifteen minutes early. You will NEVER BE LATE. If you are late reporting back after liberty because the bus broke down, you should have taken an earlier bus. There are no excuses for failure to perform.

Sunshine McGee performed very well. It was as if he had something to prove. From the start he felt a need to outshine all these white guys. His marching steps were more precise, his uniforms more crisp, his responses more convincing. He was a model recruit and Mister Small did not fail to notice. Six weeks into the training a special ceremony was conducted on the parade ground. The men of Company 718 were surprised to see Mister Small take the field behind two officers in sparkling white uniforms. Mister Small called the men to attention and introduced the officers.

This is your Regimental Commander, Lieutenant Commander Starcevich, he said. And this is your Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Jaeger. They are here for a special purpose. Recruit McGee, front and center.

Hank McGee was taken completely by surprise. Mister Small was pointing at him and gesturing for him to come forward. Hank had never seen Mister Small smile, but there was little doubt that what Hank saw on Mister Small’s face at this time was a smile, even though it was a bit crooked.

Lieutenant Commander Starcevich stepped forward and began to read from a scroll:

To all who shall see these Presents, Greeting. Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of Seaman Recruit Henry S. McGee, he is hereby appointed Recruit First Platoon Petty Officer First Class. He is, therefore, carefully and diligently to discharge the duties of such office by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto belonging and I do directly charge all recruits under his command to be obedient to his orders and he is to observe and follow such orders and directions as he shall receive from his superior officers. This appointment shall continue in force during his period of Recruit Training.

The Battalion Commander rolled the scroll into a cylinder and handed it to Hank McGee followed by a vigorous handshake. Congratulations, Petty Officer McGee, he said.

Hank accepted the scroll, stepped back, saluted smartly, and said, Thank you, sir.

#

Nearing the end of boot camp, the men were introduced to an unexpected aspect of the training. It was called liberty. They received their first government pay, ninety dollars cash for their first two months, and were given passes to leave the base, to go off- duty for a specified time. Mister Small’s instructions were simple: Stay out of trouble and report back on time.

Mickey Michigan was excited. Sunshine, my man, let’s go, buddy. I’m takin’ you out to the ball game and I’m gonna buy you some peanuts and crackerjacks. We might have a problem with the part about never coming back, but never mind that. I can’t believe my luck. My Tigers are playing here in Chicago against the White Sox and we have three-day liberty passes and money in our pockets. Doubleheaders on Friday and Sunday; five games in three days. Have you ever been to a major league baseball game?

No, said Sunshine, but I’ve seen the Memphis Chicks play in the Southern Association. Have you ever heard of Pete Gray?

Sure, he was the one-armed outfielder who played for the Browns during the war.

Mickey knew his baseball.

Sunshine did too. In 1944 that one-armed guy was voted the most valuable player in the Southern Association. He hit three thirty-three and stole sixty-three bases.

I didn’t know that. Did you see him play? Mickey asked.

I did, Sunshine answered. It was amazing what he could do with a bat. He got a lot of bunt hits. He was fast and a terrific bunter. He would jam the bat knob against his side and control it with his good hand.

It was Navy Day at Comiskey Park, home of the White Sox in South Chicago. The Navy provided several buses to transport the men to the games. On the way to the park, Mickey talked about his team, the Detroit Tigers. I can’t believe how lucky I am that the Tigers are playing here in Chicago at the same time we get our first liberty. But, sad to say, in 1952 my team is not very good. Okay, they stink. They opened the season by getting swept at home by the all-time lousiest team in baseball history, the Saint Looie Browns. It was the start of an eight-game losing streak. The season is only two months old and we’re already nine games behind the lead. It’s been a tough season for baseball in Detroit. Mickey paused to contemplate the losing.

Sunshine sensed his friend’s anguish and tried to think of something to lift Mickey’s spirits. He started to speak but Mickey cut him off.

But you know what? Mickey adopted a new bright tone, "To me it doesn’t matter. It’s my team and I support them no matter what. Think of all the great names