Operation Underworld
Legend Press Ltd, 3rd Floor, Unicorn House,
221-222 Shoreditch High Street, London E1 6PJ
[email protected]
www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Paddy Kelly 2007
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of
this work has be asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-907461-08-8
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and
place names, other than those well-established such as towns and
cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Set in Times
Printed by JF Print Ltd., Sparkford.
Cover designed by Gudrun Jobst
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For
Mary
who tried to know me, but never could.
Kate, who I pray knows me
and
Erin, who will never know me but through the words of others.
In the spring of 1972, there was little doubt in my mind that there was an organised, well-planned conspiracy between the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon and my mother. I wanted to be a frogman, so in the last week of basic training in San Diego I filled out all six requests for billets, (duty stations), and all six were to go and join the little party LBJ was babysitting over in Southeast Asia, after a short stop over at the Underwater Demolition School in Coronado, California. When I opened my orders, they said I was going to the Naval Air Station in Lakehurst, New Jersey to learn how to be a weatherman. Couldn’t get much further away from ‘The Nam’ than Lakehurst, New Jersey, or so I thought until I told the Navy I wasn’t going to be a weatherman, I wanted to be a frogman. My next set of orders were to Reykjavik, Iceland.
My suspicions of a conspiracy were confirmed.
There wasn’t a hell of a lot to do during the day in Lakehurst, New Jersey, much less in your off-duty time, so after hours I started asking around about the Hindenburg disaster and I was eventually steered towards a guy who was on the airfield the day the famous zeppelin burned. Human nature dictates that most people like to talk about their larger-than-life experiences (which is probably why some of us write books), and over a period of weeks he put me on to several other members of this exclusive club, which is no doubt a hell of a lot more exclusive today, and they were all very congenial about discussing their experiences that day in May of 1937.
The vividness of their descriptions was riveting. Although witnessed thirty-five years prior to our interview, the emotional fervour of their stories was infectious. In particular, the attention to detail, the variation of perspectives and the way they seemed to regress to that exact day and time, was enthralling.
The ability to pass on to another person, not just a story but the emotional intensity and mood of a given event, is fascinating and, although my emotional barometer is sometimes as reliable as a politician giving sworn testimony, I was hooked. Thereafter, anywhere I’d travel, world-wide, for the next thirty-seven years, the immediate priority became seeking out individuals who had witnessed or participated in some significant historical event. What happened around here and who saw it?
It’s a strange feeling now that all you have to do is go to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDU2MWJwJDc
, and you can actually watch it happen.
One of the more interesting of these stories was first told to me as a child by my mother and reiterated to me years later on Mott Street, in Little Italy.
It was the story of how, in February of 1942, a German U-Boat crept into New York Harbor and sank the world famous French luxury liner, Normandie. Later, I would find there was no U-Boat. There was, however, a great story about a ship that sank and, after extensive investigation, it appears to be a history-changing story that has never been told. The action takes place over a six-week period in early 1942 and should you wish to first appreciate this chain of events and the unique atmosphere of the time, I have offered a brief historical background in the Notes at the end.
I hope you enjoy this story.
‘When we are dealing with the Caucasian race, we have
methods that will determine loyalty. But when we deal with the
Japanese, we are in an entirely different field.’
California State Attorney General, Earl Warren in 1942,
commenting on the imprisonment of 150,000 Japanese-
American citizens.
‘Now they have created a Frank-in-steen monster and the
chickens have come home to roost all over the country!’
Presidential candidate Governor George Wallace, 1968,
commenting on the opposition.
‘Doodle Doodle Dee, Wubba Wubba Wubba.’
MTV’s Downtown Julie Brown, commenting on the current state
of politics in America.
Table of Contents
The New York City waterfront is an interesting place. Anything can happen at almost any time and in late January of 1942, despite its two and a half centuries of violent history, relative peace and calm prevailed, while half a world away free China was lost, the Battle of Britain had been fought, and Hitler was dining in Paris.
The majority of men have always, and will always, allow themselves to be caught up in world events larger than themselves, and hopelessly swim against the tide while praying to their respective gods for a favourable outcome. However, a select few have the wherewithal and foresight to keep their heads and turn such events to their advantage.
One such man was in his sixth year of a fifty year sentence, without parole, convicted on contrived evidence and told he would eventually be deported to a nation whose leader had already issued a death warrant against him.
Clinton State Penitentiary, Dannemora, New York. Groundhog Day, 1942
The weathered, olive complexion of the visitor’s face made him look older than his mid-forties. Other than the guard, who now stood sentry against the wall in front of him, he was alone in the under-lit, painted brick room.
Sitting patiently at the far end of the long wooden table, hands on top in full view as the large, baked-enamel sign on the wall dictated, he was kitted out in a dark blue, handmade suit complete with silk tie. He glanced at the stone-faced guard, who stared back with his best tough guy face. After a fifteen minute wait, the rattling of locks on the dark green, steel doors progressively echoed louder and louder throughout the adjoining chambers, until the door leading into the visitors room creaked open, and two more men entered.
The pock-marked-faced prisoner with dark hair and drooping right eyelid was the first to enter and was escorted to a seat on the opposite side of the table by a second, older guard. The visitor reached over the twelve inch high partition which bisected the thick oak top to shake hands with the dungaree-clad man on the opposite side.
“Keep your hands away from the prisoner!” Tough Guy guard yelled. The visitor was unfazed and proceeded with his inquiry in a tone of genuine concern.
“How ya doin’, Charlie?”
“Ah…” Charlie shrugged. “It’s Dannemora, you know. Fuckin’ Siberia.”
“Ya need anything?” Both men were visibly relaxed.
“Yeah. Get me down state!”
“We’re workin’ on it, Charlie. Anything else?”
“How’s it goin’ downtown?” He changed to a near whisper, and immediately both guards drifted closer to the table. The men looked up from their seated positions, and then at each other. With feigned disregard they resumed their conversation, only now in Italian. The guards didn’t back away.
“Things ain’t lookin’ so good. Especially with these two assholes standin’ here.”
“Ya think maybe they’re queer for each other?” Neither of the men laughed at the comment, but the younger of the two guards became visibly annoyed, and started towards Lucky. The elder guard raised an arm to stop him and the men once again resumed their conversation, however this time in an obscure dialect of Sicilian.
“Why? What’s goin’ on?” The guards drifted back towards the wall as Tough Guy grew increasingly irritated.
“The Camardos are gettin’ more independent, we’re losin’ more of Jersey. Siegel says if they don’t let him send somebody over there to put a hit on Goering and Goebbels, he’s gonna do it himself.”
“That crazy Jew bastard! Always with the gun! What’s the story on working with the Navy people?” A downward glance introduced his reply.
“They nixed it!”
“What? Why? What’s our guys in DC say?” Charlie was surprised.
“Too politically risky. They don’t want no part of it.”
“Shit! Did you remind them…?”
“Yeah.”
“I was countin’ on that deal ta solidify our operations fer after the war.”
“Maybe get you down state while we’re at it.”
“Maybe.” Luciano looked down at the table top. “Maybe they can be persuaded,” Charlie suggested. The young guard could stand it no longer. The senior sentry nodded at his younger colleague and both started towards the men.
“Times up! Let’s go!” Halfway through the door, Lucky called back over his shoulder.
“Send Albert A. up here next week.”
Free China might have been lost, the Battle of Britain may have been fought, and perhaps Hitler was dining in Paris, but on the Manhattan side of the Big Pond, relative peace and calm prevailed. The February sunrise peacefully crept over Hudson Bay, illuminating the pristine, bluish-green water of New York Harbor. The golden sunlight sent moonbeam-like reflections dancing playfully across the serene river and helped chase the morning chill from the docks.
For the last forty-five minutes, methods of transport of every shape and description arrived, depositing denim clad workers onto the planks of Pier 88 along Luxury Liner Row, just off 49th Street. Few arrived by automobile as parking spaces were all but non-existent and the limited few were reserved for the most senior executives and high ranking naval officers. Besides, cars were for the rich. Instead bicycles, buses, subways, and most often the ‘shoe leather express’, were the tradesman’s common modes of transport. The second Monday of the month saw the slow, but purposeful activity of nearly 5,000 workers about to ease into their daily routine of organised chaos. As 6:30 a.m. approached, the change of shift whistle was about to sound and 2,500 weary bodies would be replaced by 2,500 fresh workers ready to expend their energy into the project at hand.