Operation Underworld (3 page)

Through a shroud of grey, he saw the two men he had chewed out earlier that morning, both with sledge hammers, alternately beating a four inch water spigot in unison to the
Anvil Chorus
. Over the roar of the encroaching flames, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “What the hell are you two assholes doin’ here?!”

“Tryin’ to rig a leak!” Both continued to pound away at the thick brass spigot. As if on cue, the fixture burst and the resulting torrent of water dowsed the flames just as they were about to reach the main POL stores. Breaking into a celebratory dance, both men dowsed themselves in the water.

“Never mind that shit! Get the hell outta here!” Smiling angrily and following the men out of the compartment, the Foreman muttered to himself. “Assholes!”

Back on the dock area, a few of the men who had initially fled were now returning to lend a hand and began to set up an area away from the ship to gather the casualties for the docs to assess.

One of the men was the man who earlier had asked what a triage was.

Staring through the oversized binoculars, the young boy felt more like a man then he had ever done sitting in a classroom. Jimmy had quit school two months ago when the war broke out and, through some friends who were connected, got a job in the Harbor Master’s shack. Next year, when he turned seventeen, he would sign up.

Although the building which housed the Harbor Master and his team was still referred to by its eighteenth century name, it was anything but a shack.

The red-enamelled, two storey, clapboard structure, which sat on what was essentially two sets of steel stilts, overlooked most of the harbour from its strategic position on the tip of Pier 62 just off West 23rd Street, and was equipped with the latest in modern advances. High definition FM radio, lamp-lit map boards and a dedicated direct telephone line to the fire tug outposts along Manhattan Island.

Due to the immensity of the New York Harbor, it was impossible to view the entire area at one time from any land or sea position, so Jimmy was unsure exactly where the smoke plume he now observed originated. In this instance, protocol dictated an emergency procedure be enacted whereby the area of the potential trouble was approximated, and a grid mapped out. Then all hands would man the radio and phone lines to pinpoint the location of the problem and notify the nearest tug team.

“Hey, Mr. Rorro. Mr. Rorro, sir. I think I see something way out there,” Jimmy said, squinting through the ship’s binoculars.

“You’re supposed to see something way out there, Jimmy. That’s what binos are for.” The old HM was annoyed but tolerated his work being interrupted by the young boy’s enthusiasm.

“Sir, can you have a look at this, please?”

“Son, I have got to get these tug escort reports done today! So stop buggin’ me!” The old man remained at the desk and continued to write.

“Sir, it looks like something. A fire maybe.” The old man’s head came up from the paperwork. “Out near the tunnels.”

The HM walked over and took the glasses from the boy. Even before he raised them, he knew. “That’s a fire alright! Get on the grid! I’ll notify the tugs!”

Just as he reached for the emergency line, it rang.

“Hello! HM shack, who is this?” It was Lance Corporal Deuth. “Yes, corporal! Have you notified the fire and police departments? Alright then, keep the main gate clear of traffic and continue to man your station. Report to the fire chief when he arrives. The tugs are on their way. Corporal Deuth, good job!”

“John! I got Harbor Side on the line. How many units?” The Assistant HM spoke hurriedly but remained cognisant of his professionalism.

“Dispatch unit 52 Able and tell him to report as soon as he’s in sight of the fire, then tell South Park Baker to standby and get South Park Able up there for back-up. Tell ’em to step on it. Those creosote-soaked piers get involved, there’s gonna be one helluva lot of freight landin’ in Jersey!”

“Why not dispatch 52 Baker with them?” Rorro didn’t miss a beat.

“If the wind shifts north, we’ll need somebody up there to intercept. Ronnie, get on Channel Nine, notify all vessels as of… 14:21 hours, unless associated with the fire, we are on radio blackout until further notice. Frank, get busy! Divert all traffic south of the G.W.”

“I’m on it!” Frank shot back.

The HM notified the harbour-side fire brigade, and then proceeded to broadcast on the emergency band, Channel Nine, to divert all traffic away from the area. For a full twenty minutes the old HM showed why he was in charge, running back and forth across the shack directing personnel and issuing orders.

Through all the activity, Jimmy dutifully sat at the small corner table, struggling to plot the grid as he’d been trained. As the situation in the shack gradually came under control, the HM noticed the youngster still tucked away at the desk. Walking over to him, the man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Jimmy continued to plot.

“Hey, Jimmy,” he said quietly.

Without looking up, Jimmy responded. “I’ve almost got it, sir. Just one more minute!”

“You can stop now. We’re there. It‘s eighty-eight.” Masked in a look of despair, the youngster turned towards the leathery-faced man. Rorro turned to walk away, then hesitated.

“Hey Jimmy, nice job. You done good. You’ll get credit in my official report for spotting the fire.” Adejected Jimmy slumped in his chair. Rorro crossed the room and without turning back added, “You may have saved a few lives today.”

Jimmy hoped his parents would understand when he told them he wouldn’t be joining the Navy. He was going to sign on to become a Harbor Master.

Back at the Normandie, events were mushrooming out of control as the number of men streaming out of the flaming vessel and onto the narrow pier steadily swelled. Realising that the entire dock may be engulfed, they began moving back towards the gate area carrying as many of the injured as possible with them, where they were met head-on by fire-fighters, dragging hoses, hard-pressed to reach the entire length of the berth.

As one of the men rushed back to the blazing vessel, for what was his third time in half an hour, he was forced to avert his eyes in horror. A body, its arms and legs flailing, fell through the hot air, over 100 feet from the main deck of the ship, and violently slammed into the hard wooden timbers of the pier.

Forty-five minutes into the blaze, the burning had progressed far enough that the fire was declared out of control. Smoke and flames were visible across the Hudson River in New Jersey, and several fire units from that state had been mistakenly alerted.

Ripping spectacular wakes through the river as they sped northward, a dozen fire tugs were under full throttle, their sirens heard all across the West Side.

They arrived only seconds behind the smaller, swifter police boats, and immediately entered into their life-saving ballet from the outboard side of the vessel. In an effort to coax the flames back into the ship, the small boats furiously pumped icy sea water onto Normandie. The resulting black plumes of smoke floated into the grey of the afternoon Manhattan sky and were carried by the winter breeze out over the island, meandering through the tall buildings. The upper levels of most of the garment district skyscrapers were obscured and traffic was at a standstill as the smoke filtered down and settled at street level.

The cloud had not quite reached the office of the city’s highest official as of yet, however City Hall parking lot was full and the mayor’s office was crammed with reporters.

Fiorello LaGuardia sat at his desk, his large form nearly invisible from the neck down for the forest of microphones fanned out in front of him, his flabby chin wagging. The big man spoke to his constituency in one of his regular radio broadcasts. Just as he was building up steam, telling everyone how well he and his party had done so far this political season, not to mention how many of his campaign promises he had fulfilled, an aide entered from the sidelines and handed him a message. LaGuardia read it and asked if it had been confirmed. When the aide nodded, the politician stood and, with an alarmed look on his face, apologised to the press and excused himself.

Ten minutes later, with a police escort screaming around them LaGuardia and two men selected from his army of aides were in their official limo plotting strategy.

“I want an update on traffic problems ASAP. And prep for additional manpower in police, fire and road works,” The Mayor ordered to the senior of the two aides.

“It’s taken care of, sir.” There was a brief pause and the two aides exchanged glances.

“Your Honor, there’s something more important we need to consider.”

LaGuardia looked back from the window.

“Depending on how this thing happened – sabotage, accident – we could get hurt.”

“How bad?”

“Depends on the death toll. With an event this size, a few bodies would be acceptable… ” the junior aide chimed in.

“Depending on who they are.”

“Of course. But dozens, god forbid,
hundreds
… “ “Do we know who the scene commander is?” LaGuardia inquired.

“Chief Patrick J. Walsh”

“Democrat or republican?” The junior man began flipping through a notepad.

“Irish. Hell’s Kitchen.”

Arriving at the scene, LaGuardia had to struggle through the crowd. He was escorted past the medical triage center on the south side of the pier which had been established by medical support personnel, and it was at that moment that the gravity of the situation hit home.

Over the encroaching dusk, a 1,000 foot wide fog of smoke rose over the ship, painting half the grey sky black, then leaned south and floated towards the Atlantic. In gut-wrenching contrast to the misleading serenity above Luxury Liner Row, over a dozen fire tugs danced around the vacant adjoining slip, deciding how to keep the largest ship in the world from listing any further and becoming swamped. Suddenly, the chaotic cacophony of the casualties flooding in at an unmanageable rate, snapped him back to reality as he watched the woefully outnumbered doctors and nurses, hard-pressed in their heroic efforts to keep up.

The mayor dispatched an aide to seek out the fire chief, and fifteen minutes later Chief Walsh, his face smeared in soot, was briefing LaGuardia as to the current situation. The chief spoke in a controlled, professional tone, but was compelled to raise his voice above the clamber of the rescue efforts.

“Your Honor, at this point we have every fire tug on the West Side involved, as well as all of the shore-based apparatus we can effectively manoeuvre on this narrow pier.”

“Chief, why is she leaning so far to the side?”

“From all the water we’ve pumped into her, sir. There’s no way for it to drain out,” he explained above the din.

“What happens if she flips over?”

“In that event, Mayor, we have a crew standing by to cut the mooring lines. But we’ve secured permission from Admiral Andrews to cut holes in her hull to drain the water and try and balance her out.”

“Why not just stop pumping all that water into her? Or at least slow it down a little?” The mayor’s inexperience in disaster management was obvious.

“Mayor, we have reports of over two hundred men still trapped below decks. If those men were able to secure themselves in the various compartments and we stop pumping water onto the flames… sir, they’re as good as dead.” LaGuardia folded his arms and looked down. If two hundred lives were lost in this tragedy, and the decision for the action causing those deaths could be traced to him in any way…

“I understand, Chief. How long before it’s under control?”

“Your Honor, we may not be able to get her under control.”

As the Chief excused himself, the mayor realised he had no choice but to accept the senior fire-fighter’s expert opinion.

As night fell, the ever darkening backdrop highlighted the spectacular display of top-side flames and dancing shadows. Glancing up at the burning hulk, the mayor’s thoughts turned to the potential affects on his political career now that German saboteurs had brought the war to America.

Suddenly, a small swarm of reporters appeared around him, and began the traditional feeding frenzy of questions. Nearly surrounded, LaGuardia held his hand up, messiah-like, and began to speak. The press listened.