Liberty Ship                                             PT Boat

      “Humberto! Help! Johansen is beating up on the third mate!”

     With catlike agility, the five-foot-seven, 230-pound chief engineer scrambles down the ladder to the Liberty ship’s main deck, wraps his powerful arms around the ship's drunken  captain and tears him away from his helpless prey.

      The poor third mate, somewhat battered but not seriously hurt, is a slightly built 135-pounder mustered out of the U. S. Navy because of war wounds suffered in the battle of Guadalcanal. Wanting to stay in the fight against the Japanese, he signed up for duty in the Merchant Marine.

      Johansen is a raw-boned, six-foot-four inch alcoholic sadist called back into service after retirement at 70. His typical nighttime recreational activity is getting soused and beating up on the chief mate, a haggard, scrawny masochist.

     Humberto Cepeda is the ship’s chief engineer, an organizer for the powerful maritime engineer’s union who bears scars from knife fights with shipowner-hired scabs. Holding Johansen firmly with his arms pinned behind him, Humberto orders the ship’s radioman to call the Navy harbormaster at Noumea, New Caledonia, where we were on a supply mission, and have him send the shore patrol out to put Johansen in the brig.

     Within minutes a powerboat pulls alongside. Three husky shore patrolmen climb the Jacob’s ladder, handcuff Johansen, lower him into their bobbing boat and take him ashore. “I’ll get you, Cepeda!” Johansen howls, his speech slurred.

     The next day, Humberto, I and the third mate attend a hearing at the Navy’s command center in Noumea.

     A regular Navy captain presides and takes our sworn testimony, which he accepts without any rebuttal from Johansen. With Solomonic wisdom, he renders his decision. The third mate is transferred to another cargo ship, and Johansen is restored to his command with a reprimand. The captain, Humberto and I return to the ship without a word spoken; but we can feel Johansen’s hatred.

     Back on board, I ask Humberto if he fears retribution. “Not to worry, Daveed. He knows better. Thees is not the first time we tangle. He will not try anything. He has his bridge. I have the engine room. He has one friend, the bosun’s mate. I have the whole crew.”

     Fully loaded with new supplies, the ship returns to New Guinea, transfers its cargo to a Navy supply ship, and steams away.

   
      A few days out of San Franciso, I hear the glorious strains of the “Grand March” from Aida bathing the dull gray hull of the Liberty ship with a shimmering musical cloak. I puzzle over the source of this soul-enriching sound coming from a cabin above my cramped quarters.

      After a short climb, I see Humberto, stripped to the waist, bare feet up on the railing. An old windup phonograph and a stack of Victor Red Seal records rest on a nearby stand.

     After a brief conversation that reveals our identical view of the world, this roly-poly native of Chile and I become friends for life. Humberto embraces me with warmth, charm and political savvy—an exciting, serendipitous event in the long, 28-day voyage across the Pacific in July 1944.
    
    Old enough to be my father, Humberto and I form a strong bond of friendship.