Frederick "Stretch" Lanson stepped off the subway at South Street Station and walked the four blocks to the agent’s office. He wanted to work the stiffness out of his leg. A reminder from his last voyage when he had a Liberty Ship shot out from under him. It didn’t bother him much, but if he sat still for any length of time it would stiffen up. He had been on the beach for six weeks and still on full pay. He could have stayed another couple of weeks, but George the agent had sent for him. At the office the girl told him to go right in—Mr. Peterson had been expecting him.

"Hi, Stretch," George greeted him. "How’s the Leg?"

"Not bad. Why’d you call me back? I have another two weeks coming."

"We have a tanker coming out of the yards in Chester, the Houston, and we need a first officer. Captain Johensen asked for you."

"Which Johensen?"

"Aren."

"He’s okay. I’ve sailed with him before. When do I leave?"

"Here’s your ticket. Train leaves at 1800. I’ll get you a ride to Penn Station. Good Luck, Stretch."

"Thanks. See you later."

Stretch arrived at the shipyard about midnight. The gangway watch, was Axel Murphy an Able Bodied Seaman who knew him.

"Mr. Lanson, are you going to be the mate?"

"Looks that way."

"Now I know we’ll have a good trip." Calling to an ordinary seaman he said, "Don’t stand there, Franklin. Get the officer’s gear and take it to his quarters. Welcome aboard, sir."

"Glad to be here; See you tomorrow." Stretch wasted no time getting into his bunk. He felt like he had just closed his eyes when someone woke him. It was the cabin steward.

"Senor Lanson, you sleep so long you miss breakfast. The Captain is asking for you."

"Morning Jose. Is breakfast over."

"Si, but Lesley is holding it open for you." He gulped down breakfast and reported to the Captain’s quarters. After the usual greeting they got down to business.

"You have three days to get ready for sea. Here is a list of the crew—you know most of them. The last of them will be here tomorrow. We get underway Friday for Galveston. We’ll make our shake down run on the way."

Stretch found most of the deck crew loafing in the shade on the forward superstructure. They came to their feet as he approached them.

"Who’s Boatswain?" he asked.

"I am, sir, Gillis Mitchell."

"The last time I saw you, you were an ordinary Seaman."

"Yes, sir, That was on the James Harrison, and you were third mate."

"That’s right. We have to be ready for sea in three days. Get your day workers busy. There is a lot of work to be done."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The crew turned to with a will. Stretch watched them with satisfaction. They were going to be all right, and he did know most of them. The many things that had to be done were being knocked off one at a time. Every morning he had a new list of things to do. That evening Mitch gave it back, and if anything wasn’t completed there was always a good reason. Slowly the vessel was shaping up she would be ready on time.

At 0800 Friday morning the 8-to-12 watch had just taken over. Johensen and Stretch ware on the bridge. The tugs came along side. The junior third mate, William Telford, also known as Billy Boy, was the mate of the watch.

"It’s your watch, Mr. Telford," Aren said, "take her out. Come on, Stretch, he doesn’t need us looking over his shoulder. We can watch from the flying bridge." Once they cleared the harbor and took on seawater for ballast the captain took command.

"Now we’ll see what she’s got," he said. "Tell Cory to open all the nozzles on the block. Let’s watch her run." Houston came up to speed like a lady. Doing a good twenty-four knots with no vibrations to speak of. He held her there for an hour before backing off.

"Mr. Parker," he told the second mate, "lay out a course to Galveston, by way of the Florida Straits."

"Aye, aye, sir."

They arrived in Galveston one day early and entered the ship yard to clear the few write-ups they had noted on the trip from Chester. Two days later the tugs moved them to the oil dock, where they took on cargo, 16 thousand tons of high-octane aviation gasoline. They sailed under sealed orders. Stretch was in the chart room with the Captain when he opened envelope.

. "Malta," he said. That one word explained everything. The British were taking a pounding. They had to have gasoline for their fighter planes. Their job was to get it there at all cost. The word spread rapidly through the crew. Every man knew they were in for a dangerous voyage. They crossed the gulf and ran south of Cuba avoiding the Florida Straits and Windward Pass and entered the Atlantic through Mona Straits north of Puerto Rico. Houston did all that was asked of her. At 22 knots she covered over 500 miles a day. No Submarine could keep up with her. The foam piled up at her bow as she plowed through the sea. In sailor talk, "She had a white bone in her teeth".

For next nine days they settled into the routine of the sea, watch above and watch below. Lieutenant Davenport, the navy gunnery officer, held drills and fired the weapons to clear them. The gunners helped as lookouts. They scanned the sea and sky constantly for any sign of the enemy. They blew by the Straits of Gibraltar and in to the Mediterranean. Malta was only 96 hours away.

It was at the change of the watch at noon. Rich Parker was taking sightings to get their midday fix. The 8-to-12 was leaving the bridge when the call came from the look out.

"Torpedo wake! Port side! Dead abeam!"

"Come right to two-seven-zero!" Johensen ordered. By turning the stern toward the attacker he gave them a smaller target and put distance between him and that sub. The torpedo streaked by them on the starboard side missing them by a few yards. Another was on its way but ran out of power before it could find its target. Houston’s speed had saved her.

"Come to zero-nine-zero and steady as she goes," he told the man on the wheel and took his place in the Captain’s chair. They were in action—his place was on the bridge. Stretch arrived at midnight.

"Captain, you need your rest," he said. "You will be no good to us if you’re burnt out. I’ll be here, and if any thing comes up I’ll call you."

"I suppose you’re right. We’ve out run that sub. If I’m not back by six you call me."

"Aye, aye, sir."

There was no need to call him. He was back on the bridge at four bells. Stretch went below for breakfast and a few hours sleep. He was jerked awake by the sound of gunfire. He jumped into his pants and ran barefoot to the bridge.

The gunners were blasting away at an aircraft that had just scarified the ship. It turned around for another pass. This time it came in low. Every gun on the ship was firing. They hit it. The pilot lost control, and one wing dipped into the water. It cartwheeled into the sea and sank immediately.

The bridge had taken the blunt of the attack. Stretch surveyed the damage. Jack Ritter lay dead beside at the helm. Parker had taken several hits and lay in a pool of blood. The Captain was still alive, but he didn’t have long he was bleeding to death.

"You’re Captain now, Stretch," he said. "Take her to Malta." Those were his last words. The bridge was in chaos, broken glass everywhere, three dead bodies, and the blood sloshed back and forth with the roll of the vessel.

"Boats, gets some men up here to clean up this mess," he ordered. Without waiting for an answer told the third mate. "Molan, you’re first officer now. Take the watch. Tilford you are second. Take charge of this mess. Mitch I’ll have to make you third mate."

"I wouldn’t be good at it, sir. Axel Murphy would be the better choice."

"Okay, get him up here, and put Smith on the wheel. We’ll have to rearrange the watches." His next chore was to check with the engine room. Everything there was all right. He noticed Lieutenant Davenport standing next to him. "How did you make out?’ he asked?

"One dead, two wounded, the purser is taking care of them. I lost Sawyer. He was only seventeen"

"Well you got the son-of –a-bitch anyhow."

"That doesn’t seem to help."

"Never does."

The work of the ship had to go on. Meals had to be prepared, watches stood and, the engine tended. Especially the engine it was their lifeline—without it they were dead meat. Davenport split the gunners up half on watch and half off. No one got much rest; everyone watched the sky for another attack that was sure to come.

Mitch had prepared the bodies for burial, sewed them in canvas with ten pounds of lead at their feet. Stretch found the eulogy in a seaman’s manual. They lay to for the ceremony. He read it over the four flag draped bodies. At the close of the passage he added his own words.

"These were good men, seaman. May they rest in peace," he said before reading the last line. "And the bodies will be cast into the sea." The boards were tilted and one by one they slipped from under the flag and dropped over the side. Houston moved on. She had lost four of her crew, but the job was yet to be done.

Another attack came at 0923 the next morning. This time it was dive-bombers. Stretch had the quartermaster change directions every thirty seconds, a maneuver that seemed to outwit the aircraft. One after another the bombs landed to port or starboard. The gunners blazed away as the battle raged. One aircraft came straight across their decks and dropped a bomb that exploded just aft of the starboard quarter. So close that it warped the seams in the shaft ally and the sea rushed in. The twenty-millimeter on the stern hit the plane and set it afire. The pilot pulled straight up to gain enough altitude to bail out. The other three had expended their ordinance and wanting no more of the guns of Houston, they flew away. Stretch watched the man in the parachute land in the water only a few yards from the ship.

"Boats," Stretch said, "go pick him up."

"Aye, aye, sir." It goes against the grain of a sailor to let a man die at sea, even if he was trying to kill you. A few minutes later Boats brought a waterlogged pilot aboard. He kept saying the same thing over and over.

"Get Ostovitch up here and see what he’s talking about." Stretch ordered. The chief electrician arrived shortly.

"He’s saying his name rank and serial number," Ivan explained.

"That’s all he’s suppose to say." Stretch said. "Boats, have the purser see if he’s hurt. If he is put him in the dispensary if not lock him up somewhere."

"Aye, aye, sir." Mitch said. "Come on name, rank and serial number. You’re lucky we don’t throw you ass over the side."

Now came the grim task of counting the dead and wounded. Stretch assigned that detail to Molan. He called the engine room to find out why the engines had stopped. The first assistant answered the phone.

"What the hell is going on down there?" Stretch asked.

"We have a shaft ally full of water, sir. The shaft is under water—if we try to run the engine we’ll damage it. We have two auxiliary pumps down the hatch on the stern and we are gaining on the water. As soon as we can we’ll get men down there to plug the leaks."

The pumps gained, and the water level dropped to a point where men could go to work. Chief Corey along with Tom Carter the maintenance man and the three wipers went down the after hatch into total darkness. Their only light came from battle lanterns. The water was waist deep and cold. They found the first leaking seam and drove wooden wedges in it one after another—each wedge stopped some of the water. When one seam was sealed they went to another. The dark and cold took its toll. Elroy Dennis one of the wipers began to shake uncontrollably.

"Get him out of here and ask Phillips to come down," Corey ordered.

"I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t stop shaking," Dennis said.

As soon as he was on deck they wrapped him in a blanket and gave him hot coffee to drink. It wasn’t long until the other men had to be replaced. The work continued and every leak plugged allowed the pumps to gain more on the water.

Up on deck the grim count of the dead and wounded went on. Conway Fields, ship’s carpenter dead: Kenneth Rogers ordinary seaman, dead: Thaddeus McDonald pantry man crew mess, dead: Denton Brady, mess man, wounded: Paul Grant gunner’s mate dead: Jean Eats gunner’s mate wounded. The toll now stood at eight dead and four wounded. Houston lay dead in the water. By the end of the, third watch the water was pumped, out and Corey inspected the shaft. He went to the bridge to talk with Stretch.

"We have a big problem, sir," Corey said. "The ship is warped and the shaft is no longer straight. If we try to run 22 knots the shaft will buckle and tear its self out of the bearings."

"What can you give me?" Stretch asked.

"Six, maybe eight knots. Is the best we can do."

"Then give me eight knots. We still have a thousand miles to go."

"Aye, sir. I’ll get you eight and maybe even ten." It was just turning dark when they once again got underway. All night they crawled along. By morning they had covered 127 miles. Corey eased the speed up to ten knots. The shaft seemed to be holding. By noon there had been no attack. One lone plane showed up and stayed well out of the range of their guns. Davenport stood on the bridge with Stretch.

"What do you think?" Davenport asked

"He’s just looking us over. I guess they thought we would sink last night, or hoped so. There will be another attack you can bank on it. We are still outrunning the subs. When it comes it’ll be from the air."

"How long you figure?"

"If he called in our position, and I m sure he did. They are scrambling their bombers right now. Thirty minutes to get them off the ground and two and a half-hours to find us. If they are worth their salt they should be here about 1600."

"We’ll be ready for them," Davenport declared.

All afternoon they worked on the guns, cleaned and oiled every part, each movement checked and operated. Extra ammunition was stacked inside each gun mount. Seaman replaced the fallen gunners. Houston was ready for the worst. At 1545 the first planes were sighted. They came in low just off the water four of them with their guns blazing.

"Commence Firing!" Davenport shouted. Every gun on Houston opened up. The roar of the battle was deafening. The quad forties tore the wing off one bomber. Completely out of control, it crashed into the side of the ship. The second dropped his bomb too soon, and it exploded harmlessly into the sea. The third plane dropped a bomb that hit forward of the bridge, starting a fire. The forth one circled out and came back for another run, but he got too close and the twin twenties on the stern took him out. The others flew away leaving Houston to once more repair the damage and count the dead.

The welcome night came, and thank God no moon. They ran like a hunted thing. By daylight they had covered another 120 miles. That afternoon they came again. Three bombers and this time the bomb hit the side of the ship and just aft of the stack. Seawater poured into the engine room. The black gang scrambled for the escape hatches. When the water got to the boilers it put out the fires. The sound of small explosions came from the engine room as cold water came in contact with supper heated medal. The aircraft came in for another run. Stretch lost his temper. Instead of taking cover he stood on the flying bridge and shook his fist at the approaching enemy.

"We’re still here you sons-of-bitches. We’re taking this cargo to Malta, and when we do the Brits’ll kick your ass." Someone grabbed him pulling him to the deck. It was Bill Boy.

"You have to take cover, sir," he shouted over the roar of the battle. "We’d never make it with out you." The battle ended and silence fell over the ship. Stretch was beaten. He sat on the deck and tears welled in his eyes. His ship was dead in the water, on fire, and probably sinking. The only power they had was from an emergency generator in the fidley.

"What the hell can I to do now?" he said more to himself that to anyone.

"We’re still afloat, sir," Bill Boy said and looked at Stretch with faith in his eyes.

Stretch stood up and looked around. Boats and his men were getting the best of a fire up forward. Damn what a crew he thought. Not one had faltered or showed signs of giving up. They had taken everything the Germans could throw at them, and still ready for more. But now what the hell could he do.

"Ships on the Horizon, dead ahead," the lookout called.

"How many?" Stretch asked.

"Two maybe three, sir"

"What Flag?"

"The Union Jack. It’s the Brits."

In less than an hour the British destroyers were there. One took them in tow by the bow. The other two came along side and tied off to the bits amidships. The flying bridge of the destroyer came with in a few feet of the deck of the tanker. Stretch went down to talk to the commander of the smaller ship.

"You chaps seemed to have taken a beating," the British commander said.

"We’ve had the hell beat out of us," Stretch answered. "How long to Malta?"

"Thirty-six hours more or less I’d say. If Jerry comes back again he will have more guns for him to look into than he’ll care for."

There was one more attack the next day. They came at them out of the morning sun, four dive-bombers. Houston started firing—first the heavy roar of the quad-forties, followed by the chatter of the twin-twenties and the boom of the five-thirty-eight on the stern. The British pompoms pounded out death and destruction. The lead plane took a direct hit from the five-inch gun and exploded. The Brits hit the second one in the engine it turned away trailing smoke. The other two decided discretion the better part of valor and broke off the attack.

Early the next morning they entered the harbor at Malta. The British commander ordered his men to dip the colors. Stretch knew they never dipped colors to a merchantman; that was only for a man-of-war.

"Boats do you know how to dip the colors?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go aft and return their salute."

Two tugs came out, took over, and pushed them in to a dock that had the equipment to pump out Houston’s cargo. Ambulance’s arrived to take off the wounded and a burial detail for the dead. Ten dead, twelve wounded—God what a cost.